


and they say romance is dead

by challengeaccepted



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Forced Marriage, M/M, Mpreg, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:57:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/challengeaccepted/pseuds/challengeaccepted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/7634.html?replyto=13635794 this prompt on the kink meme. Heed the warnings in the tags, please.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It starts: With him face down, on a bed that smells faintly of lilacs, going, "No." This he recalls distinctly, having said it more than once. Possibly not loud enough. Definitely not loud enough, and even his own body isn't listening to him, so it's not all that unexpected that Erik doesn't. "No," Charles says again, for good measure, and then Erik shoves in, and Charles screams, and he's not saying no anymore. Not saying much, anymore. _Heat_ , hot and unfettered and loud, like an accident or a gunshot or his blood, thudding through his veins, beat quickening to match Erik's.

Again and again and back again.

Slick between his legs, Erik's breath hot on the back of his neck as he moans, long and drawn out, and his cock - Charles pushes himself backwards so he's almost on his knees, says, "Fuck," almost incoherently, and comes.

-

The pregnancy kits are lying, all of them. What chance impregnation? Omegas in heat, almost eighty percent. This is why you stay indoors, draw your curtains and refuse company. Not go to a party even though you kinda sorta maybe suspect it's coming. Should have seen it coming. Dizzy and disoriented and the man - Erik Lehnsherr, he said, and his smile was slow and lazy and Charles liked him, would have, maybe, some day in the future.

What kind of fucked up biological system is this, anyway?

Charles sits on the toilet bowl for a while, wastes a few more pregnancy kits for good measure, then contemplates his mother's sleeping pills. Opium for the terminally disappointed: she'd wanted an alpha son like her father, and got Charles instead.

Sorry to disappoint you once again, Charles thinks, and it almost brings a smile to his face. Not that she will ever find out. Charles shoves the pills back into his coat pocket and throws the kits away - positive positive positive.

Someone ought to know someone who ought to know someone.

He starts making phonecalls instead.

-

Someone blows up the abortion clinic as he's standing in the reception area waiting to go in. In retrospect, it's kind of ridiculous, his timing.

In retrospect, that he could suffer only minor injuries and then the fetus not having the common decency to exit his body sayonara goodbye see you in the next life where perhaps the circumstances aren't so dire, more to tragedy, really.

Kurt yells for a while, brings some of the nurses in, but then he calms down and they let him stay long enough to ask questions that Charles keeps answering with either a _No_ or an _I don't know._

"What's the guy's name?"

_I don't know._

"How could you let this happen to you?"

_I don't know._

"Do you know how much shame you've brought upon this family? Upon me?"

_No._

Kurt breaks his arm then, and Charles starts crying. The nurses rush back in, huddling protectively over the bed as one of them yells at Kurt, "Out. Out." Another one pushes a syringe filled with transparent fluid into his IV, and Charles, blessedly, is pulled down into darkness.

-

Kurt locks Charles in his room once he's released from the hospital. He doesn't care. It's not as if he has plans to leave the house ever again.

At least this way someone brings him food and he has his books to entertain him.

Welcome to his new life, which is exactly like his old life. Except for that thing growing inside of him, and Charles suggested once, because Kurt has taken to coming into his room late at night when he's well and truly wasted to berate him on a) being a failure and a disgrace to his family b) being a slut who would let just about anyone spill his seed into him and c) still refusing to tell him the name of that anyone.

"What does it matter," Charles asks, shifting his pillow under him so it's more comfortable. It's how he usually copes with Kurt, curled up on the bed with blanket wrapped around him and his eyes snapped shut so the words just drift past in an almost incomprehensible blur. It irritates the fuck out of Kurt, but he dragged Charles forcibly out of the bed once and Charles threw up all over his shirt - morning sickness, so sorry sir I have this parasite growing inside of me - so now Kurt stands a safe distance away and raises his voice even louder.

There's no response to his question, so Charles cracks open one eye. "Well?"

"We shouldn't be the only ones made to suffer for your indiscretions," Kurt says, reddening slightly. "He should take responsibility."

Charles has to smile at that. "What, are we going to shotgun wedding him?"

"There is a law." The words are blurted out as if he's been holding back a big secret, and that explains the persistence then.

But then: surely not.

But then: something a teacher said in Sex Ed one day, and Charles had absorbed it into his mind then dismissed it, how quaint and archaic, and besides, who would be so foolish as to get knocked up without proper bonding and marriage rituals.

Who indeed.

"Surely you can't be serious." But then Kurt's pissed away his sense of humor into the bottom of a drink, so obviously he is. Charles sits up, reconsiders it, lies back down again and pushes his face into the pillow.

"You'll tell me soon enough."

Charles ignores him until he goes away.

-

Raven calls, at some point, mutters something about someone who heard something from someone at the hospital surely it can't be true Charles are you are you are you -

"Shut up," Charles snaps, and her voice stutters abruptly to a halt.

"Oh, you are," she says finally, a little breathless with shock. "I thought it was just rumors, honestly. You know how people get."

"I told you I didn't want to go to that party. I told you."

Raven doesn't respond, and of course it's not her fault. Raven's cycle came and went, she behaved in the appropriate manner and surely it wasn't her responsibility to make sure Charles didn't get fucked in the upstairs bedroom in some stranger's house - Charles should send him a check for the laundry bill, sorry sir for the soiled sheets you know how we get when we get how we get.

"I'm sorry," Charles says. "Who knows?"

"Not everyone," Raven says, evasive even over the phone. Terrible liar, that girl. "Just a few people. It'll be allright Charles." She pauses. "How was it? Was it - was it good?"

_Was it good?_

Erik tried to kiss him at first, and Charles spun away, laughing even as he was pushed gently into the room, as the door clicked behind them and the music abruptly shut away, leaving only the heavy pulse of the base and the man staring at him as if he were a particularly vulnerable prey.

Come here come here _come here_ -

and Charles did exactly the reverse, evaded him by walking backwards, but mother always said he was the clumsiest of children, and he ended up falling onto the bed instead. Practically an invitation.

First mistake.

No, first mistake was accepting that drink saying hello following him upstairs going into heat -

Leaving the house, surely.

"Charles, are you there?"

Charles can't bear to hear her voice anymore, so he slams the phone down into the receiver and screams into his pillow for a while. It doesn't help.

-

He's not been imprinted upon. At least he doesn't feel it. Nauseous, sometimes. Growing crazy with isolation, more than sometimes. Obsessing over the bump that's sure to appear some day soon as the thing keeps growing, all the fucking time. But not bonded. Not filled with warmth, security, protection, all the things the phamplets say when they hand them out, "Your true mate and you!" instruction manuals on how to be the perfect omega to your alpha.

As far as Charles can tell it's a lot of propaganda to encourage breeding. Understandable, birth rates keep falling even with half the population going insane every once in a while and the other half sniffing them and following suit.

It's not that he thinks about Erik while jerking off, hand desperate over his cock and grateful that he can still see it over the flat plane of his belly. So much slick gushing between his legs, shouldn't it stop now he's already fucking pregnant the job's been done - Erik with his hard eyes and calloused hands and the way he held Charles' waist effortlessly as he tried to pull away - or shove back into him, everything got blurry at some point, just the slap of skin against skin and the scent of an alpha marking his territory.

Charles doesn't feel particularly marked now, just as alone as he's ever been. The scent that marks the air after he's done is just his own, ordinary and weak.

Kurt comes into the room once, just as Charles has finished, and blanches. He practically runs out of the room and slams the door behind him, and after that Charles times his masturbation carefully.

Son-of-a-bitch though, sometimes he comes in early.

To change his strategy, apparently: "Don't you want to see him again, Charles? He's your mate. He broke ritual, sure - but you were in heat. Can't fault the man."

"We just fucked the one time, Kurt," Charles replies lazily, desultorily, because it's that kind of day, apparently. Tomorrow he will go back to monosyllabic answers and sullen defiance, as usual. "It was hardly the whirlwind romance of the century."

"You are an impossible boy," Kurt says, his face hardening in disgust. "Your mother always pampered you too much. I warned her. You've driven her ill, I hope you know. She's not gotten out of bed in a weak. They doctors have had to come around."

It's nothing new, his mother is driven ill once every few months, as if she's replaced going into heat with it. It's mostly due to a diet that consists of nothing but bloody marys and salad leaves drenched with french dressing, and her obsession with keeping her pre-birth weight is hardly Charles' fault.

Although that she has such a hard time keeping the weight off, that one Charles gladly takes the blame for.

Maybe in eighteen years or so he'd hate his child too, for fucking up his body.

His child. His _child._ It's a thing. Cells dividing into two and then once more and over again, stealing his nutrients in order to survive and thrive.

Charles has nightmares sometimes, of it biting its way out of his body, soaked in Charles' blood and with a piece of torn flesh in between its gums.

_Planned parenthood,_ and all the terrified and uneasy Omegas in that reception area, with their unwanted spawn-in-progress and their shame, overriding every other scent in the room.

There's still time, but Kurt's fear of God is apparently stronger than his fear of losing face, and Mother had slapped him when Charles had suggested that they just dealt with the situation quietly while they were in the hospital.

Charles arm itches, where the bone is starting to heal. He sighs in frustration as he tries to get under the cast to scratch at it, and says, "Do send her my condolences. I hope I'll be allowed to attend her funeral if she succumbs permanently."

The backhand makes his head ring, and Charles wants to shout: _I'm pregnant, what is wrong with you,_ but instead he starts to cry, and Kurt sighs. "There are alternatives," he says, "If you insist on being so stubborn."

"Like what?" Charles asks, barely listening. He wipes at the snot and tears on his face with his sleeve and it comes away wet and streaked with red. When he licks his upper lip he tastes blood, copper and rich. "What could you possibly do to me that's worse than this?"

There's no reply, and Charles doesn't expect one.


	2. Chapter 2

He dreams once that the thing has managed to crawl itself out of him, and he's dying he's dying he's _dying_ -

It looks exactly like Erik.

When he wakes up he can't decide if it was a good dream or not.

-

Raven comes to visit him. Swirls into the room while Charles is reading about plant hybridization in preparation for his future non-career in genetics all "Your mother actually tried to have a conversation I almost had a heart attack who knew she was capable of doing more than glaring at me disapprovingly?" and "Jesus fucking Christ Charles you look terrible isn't pregnancy supposed to make you glow?" as she drags a chair across the room and plops herself next to him.

Charles ignores all her nattering except: "My mother?"

"I think she was fishing about - you know." She waves vaguely in the vicinity of Charles' stomach.

"What did you tell her?" Charles asks carefully.

"The truth. That I was dancing and I lost sight of you and then I figured you'd just gotten bored and gone home."

Ah, the dancing. Charles had always known his inability to gyrate like a drunken sailor on steroids would come back to bite him in the end.

If only he'd been born more graceful paid more attention when Raven tried to teach him followed her out into the dance floor when she tried to drag along. Instead he'd made his way to the bar, and that man, that _man_ and no one had looked at Charles in that way since - since ever.

It was the beginnings of the heat of course, and Erik being the nearest alpha to catch the scent. Open and ripe for pollination. "There's more privacy upstairs," Erik said, and Charles turned to watch Raven dance with a rapt alpha, completely aware that she was the center of his attention, and nodded his head.

He was tired of being obedient and quiet and good and unnoticed. Always unnoticed.

Raven makes a face as Charles fumbles in his pockets and pulls out a cigarette pack. "Smoking's bad for the baby, Charles. I read it in this book." She reaches into her purse and emerges triumphantly with a pastel colored hardcover, dumping it onto Charles' desk. Charles pokes at it gingerly. "Knowing you, you've probably gotten it all figured out already, I tried to tell mom, but she insisted that I bring it anyway. That, and she said ice cubes helped with the nausea. Dad apparently had the worst morning sickness."

"Jesus Raven when you said everyone knew-"

Raven flushes. "I told Mom. She was worried why you hadn't come around, apparently you've taken ill with some mysterious ailment."

"That's not entirely inaccurate," Charles mumbles. Pregnancy did seem very often like a fucking disease. An ever growing tumor, incurable and life sucking.

"She won't tell anyone. I mean, if that's what you're worried about. You know my mom."

Raven's mother is an alpha. Part of the reason why Sharon dislikes Raven so much other than the usual _bad influence_ thing is some kind of altercation at a social gathering which had ended with mother in tears and Raven's mother calling her, if Raven is to be believed, "a frigid omega bitch."

Raven also says that the quarrel was a result of a disagreement over tablecloths, but Raven is a notoriously bad at the truth. Fantastic at storytelling though. Complete with sound effects.

-

Charles likes Raven's mother. She confided to him once, at another one of those interminable social gatherings - this one for parents to display their just come of age omegas like cattle, and Charles was hiding in his usual corner tugging on the suit he'd been forced to wear that he loathed and wishing desperately that he could either go home or that an alpha, any alpha, would pay attention him - that she'd always wanted an omega girl. "A boy would have been fine as well. But girls. You can dress them up in little pink dresses and teach them how to throw a ball as well, and with none of that alpha aggression. Although I have to say Raven was born with a healthy amount of aggression. Must get it from me."

 _Sports._ The mere thought.

He tries his best not to hate Raven sometimes. Maybe girl omegas had it better, like male alphas. The curious hierarchy of dominance.

Then again: maybe Raven just had better parents than his.

Charles lights the cigarettes and inhales, allows the ritual of it to calm him down. Raven tries to snatch it from him but Charles snarls and waves her off. "Won't you think of the baby, Charles?"

Won't the baby think of him?

It's a thing, he reminds himself. He shoves the thought of the future into the back of his mind viciously and takes another drag of his cigarette. "I could use a drink as well," he tells Raven. "But I can only bribe the help to bring me cigarettes. No one dares steal from the liquor cabinet. Not surprising, considering its immense importance in this house."

"I don't think you should be drinking either." She curls her finger around a lock of golden hair. "Do I know him, Charles?"

"No." Lehnsherr. German, but he didn't sound it. Erik didn't sound like he came from anywhere, but Charles might not have been paying that much attention. He'd liked the cadence of his voice and the well made cut of his suit and his _scent_ , and everything else had seemed inconsequential at the time. "He's from out of town."

"You're in touch with him then?" She asks hopefully.

"No. I wish you'd stop asking me stupid questions," Charles snaps, and Raven stills, her entire body crumpling inwards. She'd been on edge since she stepped into the room, of course she had, and Charles just hadn't bothered to notice. Raven always overcompensates by talking too much.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "It's just I don't know what to say to you. Every time you call me you sound more miserable than the next and then I ask you a question and you slam the phone down on me. You don't have to tell me what's going on if you don't want to, I get it, but I wish you would let me help you."

He's been calling Raven perhaps more often than is healthy, what with him being a) stuck alone all day with no one to talk to but a fetus and b) her being his only friend, even before all of this happened and his life went down the proverbial shit hole.

"I promise not to call you again."

"That's not what I meant," Raven wipes furiously at her face, and why was it that omegas were all so sensitive all the time? Even the ones whose mothers taught them how to swing a bat and how to punch an alpha where it hurts. Charles could probably have used the latter skill that night, instead of just lying down and - _look at you, taking all of it, I can't believe how beautiful you are._

No-one had ever called him beautiful before.

-

Moira said he was cute, senior year when she was shyly courting him, but then she went to college on the opposite side of the country and decided not to come back. Imprinted on a redheaded Omega five years younger than she was, and couldn't bear to be away from him. She sent him pictures once, of the boy, the accompanying letter wavering and tinged with frustration _I have to wait until he comes of age, the absolute horror_ and _might have been easier if you and I had just imprinted on one another_ and Charles thinks now: unlikely, that she'd wait until he turned eighteen.

But then Moira is _Moira_ and he's never had reason to feel unsafe with her around.

 _"Charles,"_ Raven tugs on his shirtsleeves. "Say something, please. You're scaring me."

"I'm sorry," Charles says, exhaustion taking over him, aching and sudden. "But you can't help me. No-one can."

Raven's eyes widen slightly through her tears, but she only leans over and hugs him, and after a while, Charles hugs her back. She smells different, he thinks dizzily. But no, it's not her that's changed, it's him. "I love you, Charles," she sniffles. "I don't care what anyone says about you."

"If you love me so much maybe you could get me some alcohol? I could use a bottle of red."

Raven pulls away and offers him a watery smile, and Charles assumes she'll tell him it's bad for the baby, but she only says, "Okay. The next time, I promise. If you'll let me come and see you again. Or you could come out. I mean your mother told me you need to rest, but I need you need some sun, Charles Francis Xavier."

The cigarette's burnt itself down to ash. Charles drags the ashtray towards him and stubs it out viciously. "You can visit me if you want. Just don't talk about him." Not him, not Erik. If Charles says his name out loud he might appear out of nowhere, put his hand on the small of Charles' spine. Charles can still feel it there sometimes, leading him up the stairs.

Raven starts crying again. "I'm so stupid."

"You're not stupid," Charles says tiredly. "It's only me."

-

Mother comes into the room, after Raven leaves. "I don't like that girl," she says.

"I see you're feeling better," Charles replies dryly. "To what to I owe the pleasure?"

"Oh, I just wanted to see if how you were." Her face is pinched and tight, and she looks as if she's lost weight, too much even for her. Although of course there's no such thing as too thin. She reaches out her hand and Charles weaves away from her fingers, and she just lets it hang there for a while before dropping it. "You were such a beautiful baby," she says distantly. "All those brown curls, and your big eyes. Just like your father's." A smile creeps across her face, the one that she gets only when she talks about Father. "You would follow him around everywhere he went on your little chubby legs. I would call out to you, but no. It was always him."

"So you're here to reminisce about Dad, then?"

"No." She blinks, her lips tighten, and Charles remembers: Kurt is an asshole, but Mother's always been the one that knows where to cut it where it hurts. "I want to tell you that he'd be disappointed in you. Seeing you like this. Unmarried and pregnant with the child of a _stranger_. Disrespectful towards your own mother. What did I ever do to deserve a son like you?" Charles has to laugh at that. Mother's hand twitches, but she only says, "I didn't want to have it come to this, Charles. But you leave me no choice."

"There is nothing you can do to me that would make me tell either one of you."

Except.

Except except _except._

-

Charles throws a tantrum. He screams and he cries and he finally falls asleep and when he wakes up it's dawn and there's a fucking bird chirping outside his window. He throws a pillow at the far wall but it only manages to reach halfway before falling to the ground with a hard thump, and the fucking bird just keeps on chirping.

_Pack your bags we're leaving today._

_You'll have to drag me out._

_Don't tempt me, boy._

Kurt would do it, too. Drag him out by his hair, toss him into the backseat of the car, drive him all the way to -

Hell.

Reform school for wayward omegas. Or something. Charles never paid much attention: surely it's not a place someone like him ever ends up in. He's so very good after all. Prim and proper and well behaved. Maybe a little mouthy sometimes, but everyone's entitled to a little spirit.

He's heard rumors though, about the place. About its inhabitants: locked up and isolated and rarely allowed to leave. Driven crazy, mostly. _Why wouldn't you go crazy?_ And then the omega cycle syncs up, and every once in a while everyone in the entire place goes into heat, the air surrounding them thickening like fog as they wailed and lamented the lack of a mate. Armed betas protecting the gates so any alphas passing by couldn't get in.

"You think a delicate thing like you could survive a day in a place like that? You have no idea what real suffering is like, pampered as you've been."

Charles wants to protest: I'm not delicate. But he's clutching a down feather pillow with silk covers and bawling like a baby, so. "You can't," he says again, and his breath hitches.

There's an expression on Kurt's face, that wavers between triumph and even more triumph. Reached him, finally.

This must have been mother's idea then.

Kurt says, and he sounds almost kind, "What's it going to be, Charles?"


	3. Chapter 3

Mother says to dress nice. Charles puts on a white shirt and his favorite blue cardigan, pairs it with a pair of beige slacks. The pants are too tight around the waist, barely buttoning up. He glares at his reflection in the mirror for a while, scowling as he tugs uncomfortably at the belt loops. They used to be too loose, would fall to rest on his hips.

"Comb your hair, Charles."

He runs his fingers through it haphazardly instead, ignores her long suffering sigh to follow her out the bedroom. She grips his arm as they head downstairs. "Now, you will behave yourself, won't you, dear. None of those histrionics you are so prone to."

"I did learn from the best," Charles mutters, and wrenches himself free.

Lehnsherr, Erik. Is not American, but lives and works there. In the city, no less. He'd been near Charles all along. If he'd not been trapped in his bedroom they might have met while Charles was having lunch downtown or going shopping with Raven. He probably wouldn't have recognized Charles, even as Charles - he might have fainted. Caused A Scene, all dramatic eye roll and fall to the ground. Even now he feels dizzy. Charles clutches at the railing for a while until his heart stops palpitating, until Mother grabs him and says, "We're going to be late."

Lehnsherr, Erik. Kurt says, when Charles slumps in the backseat and stares unseeingly out the backseat, trying his best not to throw up, "I heard he runs his own business. Don't know the family name, but we can't have everything."

The expression in his eyes as he glances into the rearview mirror says: at least you didn't fuck that up.

"Why do you keep assuming this matters to me?"

Kurt sighs. "It should. Imagine if he had no money, princess. You might be forced to do housework, maybe even work. Get those pretty little hands of yours dirty." As if Kurt has ever had to work to survive even a day in his life. He _did_ though, and he would have laughed if he'd known that Charles harbored ambitions once to follow in his footsteps. But he allowed Charles to go to college, so maybe if given enough time. Once upon a time, before all of this.

Before he became a blight on the family name.

Not Kurt's name, though. Charles would never be a _Marko._

A friend of a friend of a friend knew someone who knew Erik Lehnsherr, sure. Was invited to a party by a business associate. Mysterious, no one knows that much about him. Charles knows nothing at all about him. Except the sounds he makes when he comes, a soft grunt of release. The way he laughs: soft, amused. _Indulgent._

The shape of his teeth in Charles shoulder as he bit down, and by that time Charles had barely felt it, he was just drowning in heat and every single touch burnt equally, as if he was being set aflame, a million and one explosions under his skin.

"We're here," Mother says.

-

Mediation, they call it. In front of a neutral third party, a beta in a pinstriped suit and a rat-like face who shakes Kurt's hand at the door to his office and murmurs, "Mr. Lehnsherr is already inside." A muscle in his jaw twitches as he says the name.

Mr. Lehnsherr doesn't stand when they all file into the room. Instead he just stares impassively as Kurt takes a seat across from him and waves for Mother to do the same. There's another chair closer to the door. Charles chooses that one instead. In case he needs to duck and run to the toilet. His body betrays him so often nowadays.

Even more so than it usually does.

No-one seems to notice.

Kurt says, "So you're the one."

"So it would appear. My solicitor tells me that I have no choice but to be here. Else I'll be dragged into court."

"Yes," the mediator cuts in, settling down behind his desk. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Its what were here for after all. To settle the matter of," he glances at the papers in front of him. "Ah. Property damage."

"My son," Kurt says, in the wounded tone of the grievously wronged. "is now unmarriageable. Ruined." He adds, hastily, "Whether he was in heat or not is besides the point. He shouldn't be a burden to us."

"There is precedent," the mediator says. "Declining in recent days, of course, what with all the mess and the lawsuits that keep cropping up. Which is why we usually try to settle matters here, before the courts have to render a decision." He lifts his head. "I don't suppose both of you have bonded, have you?" he asks hopefully. "There's usually not so much of a disagreement when the pair has bonded."

It makes sense. Most bonded alphas just want their mates and they want their mates _now._ It's the unbonded alphas that insist: they were in heat and flaunting themselves, why should I have to pay for it?

"We're not bonded," Erik says. He sounds bored, vaguely distracted.

Charles stares at his hands and practices some mouth breathing exercises. The book that Raven left behind him suggested that if he had a calm mind and body, the morning sickness might not be so bad. It hasn't seemed to work so far. Clearly Charles is a failure at this. He's not even sure why he started reading it in the first place, except could never say no to an un-read book, no matter what its contents were. It reads more like a horror novel though. Something alien and ugly changing him irrevocably from the inside.

"How many months along are you?"

Charles starts and glances up. He'd been studiously avoiding looking in Erik's direction up until then. Studiously trying to avoid the scent that hit him the second he stepped into the room. An alpha in his prime, and even Kurt is affected, his initial bluster stuttering to a halt as they stared across from one another. "I -" Charles starts. "I don't...almost three months?" The hospital and then confinement, after a while the days just started to bleed together in a blur of boredom and isolation.

Kurt finally finds his voice, "Why," he snaps. "Do you doubt you're the father? My stepson is not a common streetwhore."

Well now. That's certainly debatable.

Erik turns his gaze over to Kurt, and he's more handsome than Charles remembers. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, a different well cut suit than previously, this one in a deep shade of grey matched with a even darker tie. He would turn heads, just walking down the street. Stop omegas in their tracks with longing. They probably fainted in front of him and he had to step over their bodies just to get anywhere. How inconvenient, to be so irresistible. Erik tells Kurt now, "It was just a question. I'd like to talk to him."

"Not alone."

"Fine." His attention shifts back to Charles. "What happened to your arm? Charles." He says Charles' name like it's a command, like he's a man unaccustomed to hearing the word no.

Charles, he said. I want to kiss you.

_No._

The office. Air conditioning running at full blast, Charles shivers slightly and hugs himself. "I fell," he replies, as Erik continues to look expectant. "Clumsy." He barely notices the cast is even there anymore. It's supposed to come off some time soon, but no-one's brought it up. The nurses signed it before he left the hospital, and so did Raven. Only hers is still distinct with her sprawling dark signature though, everyone else's has started to fade away.

"I see." his gaze darkens, jaw tightening with something that seems to be anger. Inexplicable. Charles looks away. He'd been angry that night too. Afterwards, when Charles had finally been able to speak: get off me, please. _get off me._ too soft, Erik had to lean down to put his ear close to Charles' mouth to catch it, but by then Charles had lost the energy to speak. Decided to just lie there until Erik decided to leave. Thinking about lilacs, and Raven, and how the slick felt, mixing with come between his knees. Erik only slid off though, and Charles watched him carefully as the the dazed look in his eyes faded, as he seemed to become aware of Charles even, for the first time.

"Fuck," he said. "Fuck."

The mediator says, "It might be a good idea if we let them be alone for a while. It might trigger the binding process. If they imprint-"

"Then it's less complicated, yes. I get that," Erik says. He sounds unamused, almost bored.

This isn't going well at all. _Court._ if Erik disagreed, Kurt would drag him in. Then if Kurt lost he would send Charles away to that horrible place and Charles would never escape, ever.

It's not as if he can will himself to imprint.

Kurt says, a little desperately, "He has a trust. Its a fair amount of money. We would also give a reasonable dowry, as expected."

"I don't need his money," Erik says. There's a pause, a sudden stillness in the year. And then Erik says: "But yes. I'll marry him."

Charles doubles over, puts his head in between his legs. He doesn't feel so good. There are faintly alarmed noises, a chair scraping back and someone going, "Is he allright? He looks as if he's about to faint." someone catches him just as he's toppling off the chair. Strong arms, familiar scent. Charles shakes, and passes out.

-

After settlement, there's discussing of the finer details of the arrangement. Charles didn't think a) that it would move so fast and b) that he would be expected to attend any of it. But according to Kurt, Erik wants him there for all of it.

Erik also rejected another trip to the mediator's office, and so instead they're having dinner at Charles' home. Mother spends half the day bustling about, ordering the help to prepare the perfect meal. She even brings out the good china, which never gets brought out. There's a faint glow of - not entirely happiness, but some kind of contentment surrounding her, one that he's not seen in a while. She must be delirious, to finally permanently get rid of him. She used to despair that he would never imprint, not with the way he acted.

Well, he still _hasn't._

Mostly though Charles stays out of her way, grateful that he's no longer confined to the room.

Although it's weird: he's almost forgotten how big the house is, and how boring. He's still not allowed to leave, so it's only a bigger prison, and eventually he ends up in his bedroom once again, drifting off to sleep as morning shifts into afternoon.

When he wakes up it's almost dusk, it's almost time for dinner, almost time for -

_Erik._

What should he wear?

He settles on a pale grey pullover and black pants, and tries to straighten his mess of hair in the mirror with liberal amounts of hairspray. It's been far too long since he's gotten a haircut, it's almost past his shoulder now.

When he heads downstairs he hears low, murmured voices in the foyer. A heady, distinctive scent, and he has to clutch at the banister for a while, but he hasn't been feeling so weak recently so he steels himself and manages to force himself to move again.

"Hullo," he says, and Erik glances up.

-

Over an entree of delicately roasted pheasant with apricots and dates, Erik says, "I would prefer a civil wedding."

Kurt objects immediately, goes, "I don't know how you Europeans do it, but around here we marry in Church."

"I'm Jewish," Erik says, and that shuts Kurt right up. Charles has to suppress a smile. The man who still thinks "he's being a Jew about his finances" is a perfectly valid statement. Mother is very genteel about her racism, had been raised to be, much like Charles. But Kurt made his fortune by marrying into it, although Charles tries not to judge. It's not as if he himself has ever earned a single thing given to him.

"I am not particularly religious, so I would prefer it that way. If it's allright with Charles, of course."

Charles stops fiddling with the hem of his pullover. It's always a surprise when Erik addresses him, even though keeps doing it. His voice lancing through Charles' thoughts, shredding them to pieces. It's taking all of Charles' focus most of the time to just keep an outwardly calm exterior, to stop himself from collapsing into omega hysterics. And now Erik wants him to contribute? Fuck no. "Whatever you want," Charles mumbles. "I don't care."

"You could look at me when you speak, Charles."

"Is that what you want?" Charles snaps his head up, stared defiantly into Erik's eyes. They're lighter than he remembered, not blue like his own. Gray, perhaps. Leaning to green. Ordinary - they're ordinary.

"That's - it's what I would prefer, yes. But you're free to do whatever you wish."

Charles opens his mouth. Shut it again. _Fine._ He casts his eyes downwards deliberately and makes a note to refuse to even glance at the man for the rest of the evening.

Mother says, "I wouldn't encourage him if I were you. He always had bright ideas, even before college put all those strange thoughts into his head. You should have heard him the first few weeks after he returned. You couldn't shut him up."

Charles flushes. College seems like a lifetime away. Everything he'd learnt. Everything he'd thought he'd learnt, and how he imagined that he'd changed. All that sloughed away the second he stepped back home. Even on the train back, he could feel himself adjusting, realigning his expectations to suit his family's. As if all the possibilities of who he could become were just a cruel joke destined to remain tantalizingly out of reach.

Despite himself, Charles glances up. Erik has his elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly. An expression of interest on his face, as if he genuinely cares what Charles had to say -

Had that expression on his face that night too.

Charles drops his head, heart thudding uncontrollably in his chest.

Erik says, "I bet you could run circles around me, Charles."

"I wouldn't."

"Wouldn't what?"

"Bet on me." He's still staring resolutely at his plate. Third course: Filet Mignon. All the stops. Erik should be duly impressed by now.

Erik switches the subject abruptly instead of responding, "When are you due to take the cast off?"

"Tomorrow."

"Which hospital?"

"Mercy Heights."

"Will you be going alone?"

"Most likely." Mother's threatened to accompany him, but the appointment's in the morning and she's usually busy passed out on tranquilizers before noon, so it's likely that he can escape without her.

"It's near where I will be working tomorrow. I could take you if you'd like."

Charles is toying with his wineglass, wondering how soon is too soon before can politely ask the server for another - please, may I have some more? I've been teetotalling for so long surely I deserve to make up for lost time. Surely. Another thing he inherited from his mother, besides the hair color and the skin that can't tolerate the sun: proclivity towards alcoholism.

Not that risk equals destiny, but it's comforting to blame her for all his weaknesses, none the less.

If he could find a way to blame her for his situation as well.

"Charles," Mother snaps. "Mr. Lehnsherr was asking you a question?" She smiles at Erik. "Of course he would."

"What?" Charles sits up straight. "No, I would really rather not."

He will blame the alcohol for his behavior afterwards, that's what he'll do.

_Rude._

Kurt certainly thinks so. Charles senses the movement from the corner of his eye, but the blow doesn't come. Instead: "Sit down."

Kurt sits. His face is red and his fists are clenched, but he says not a single word. Erik continues smoothly as if nothing at all just happened, telling the top of Charles' bowed head, "I will send a car for you if you'll tell me the time. I'll have lunch at the restaurant across the street from the hospital at twelve. You don't have to show up. But if you're hungry."

Charles doesn't respond. He couldn't if he'd wanted to anyway. His skin feels hot, too tight for his body. There's a slickness between his thighs oh shit oh shit oh shit. Not here, surely not he's already knocked up for fuck's sake biology has already done its goddamed job why won't it just leave him alone now?

but he wants -

\- he needs.

A chair violently scrapes back. Charles barely hears it through the rushing in his ears. He looks up in time to see Erik muttering hurried excuses before he stalks out, leaving the room empty of what it is that Charles desperately requires.

He almost, but only almost, manages to keep from following Erik out.

Erik barely touched his first glass of wine, Charles notes idly through the haze.

Mother says, "I suppose that could have gone worse."


	4. Chapter 4

The nurses all coo over him at the hospital, as expected. The doctor bustles in at some point, declares Charles' arm properly healed, and bustles right back out, leaving Charles to stare at the lollipop in his hand. "For making my job so easy," he says with a wink.

I had nothing to do with it, Charles wants to tell him. In fact, he'd spent half the time either trying to get under the cast to scratch at his arm or hitting it uselessly against the wall whenever he was frustrated. Once, hard enough that he was left screaming in pain and cursing himself for rampant stupidity.

It doesn't seem to have hurt the healing process any though.

One of the nurses leans close - Charles can't remember her name. Something beginning with an S. Samantha? Selene. _Sandra._ Yes, that's it. Sandra lowers her voice, "You might want to make an appointment with a gynecologist, sweetie. I'm assuming you're still," her gaze wanders to his belly, only slightly distended. Charles sucks in his stomach automatically. It doesn't work.

"I'm already seeing someone," he mutters, and is entirely sure she doesn't believe him, but she only nods her head and gives him a quick, reassuring hug. Charles hands her his lollipop and she makes a face, tosses it into a nearby wastebasket.

By the time he manages to leave it's noon. Erik's car, which had picked him up earlier, is waiting for him. It's vaguely surprising. Charles had figured he would have to -

\- Erik's in the restaurant though, as promised, even from across the road his straight-backed profile is unmistakable. There's an air of danger around him, not just the ordinary pheromones that all alphas put out. Something that screams steer clear to every other alpha in the vicinity, no doubt.

Charles steels himself and makes his way across the road. Erik immediately notices the moment he enters, a faint smile of surprised pleasure crosses his face before it's gone, replaced with calm neutrality.

Charles wants to stab him with a fork. Or something. Settles instead on: "I'm not here to stay."

"I see."

A waitress appears at Charles' elbow, flashing him a faintly envious smile as she pulls out a chair for him. Erik shakes his head at her, says, "It'll be just for the one today, Constance." Constance flashes confusion for a moment, but recovers quickly enough.

"The usual then, Mr. Lehnsherr?"

"Yes. Please."

When she leaves Charles says, "Thank you for the car. It was uh, comfortable." The driver is the size of a house. Charles has never felt more in danger of something terrible happening to him. Compared to the Terrence, who has been the family's chauffeur for years and is shorter than even Charles nowadays, peering out from behind the wheel with the sort of studied concentration that worries Charles more with each passing year.

"He'll be available for you whenever you need him."

"I don't think I'll-"

But then why the hell not? Of course, all this is dependent on how much restriction Erik puts on his movement. Perhaps he should try, as mother puts it, a little honey.

Goes a long way.

The mere thought makes him - Charles sits down abruptly in the seat pulled out for him by the lovely Constance and puts his head in his hands. "Sorry," he says. "The uh." Baby baby baby. "I get dizzy spells." Convenient excuse, that. See also: existing while omega. "Why did you ask me to lunch?"

"We are to be married. It might be nice if we had a conversation before the wedding."

Charles removes his hands from his face, gapes at Erik. "Is this the part where I express gratefulness towards you for marrying me instead of leaving me to fend for myself?" A single, pregnant omega in this world. Charles should maybe feel more appreciative than he does.

"I'm not asking for your gratitude," Erik says, growling a little. Heads turn even though he's barely raised his voice. Erik ignores them, his attention entirely focused on Charles. He deflates somewhat though, as Charles continues to stare at him incredulously, and Charles doesn't understand the man at _all._

Not that he has any reason to: someone fucks you up the ass that one time and impregnates you, doesn't mean you're suddenly privy to all of their secrets and private thoughts.

"You could have said no."

"It's my _child._ "

Oh.

"You can have it," Charles snaps, despite himself. "Breed it yourself. See how you enjoy playing host to a parasite."

Erik looks pained. "I know you're upset."

"I'm not upset. I'm." He shakes his head. "I want to go home."

"I'll get John to pull the car around," Erik says, after a long, stagnant moment, his face shutting down into a blank, smooth plate. It's disconcerting: still life with Lehnsherr.

Why did Charles think even for a brief moment that this was a good idea?

He stumbles out into the noon sun, and collapses into the safety of the backseat. Shaken, not stirred. But: no throwing up, so that's a plus at least.

-

Mother insists that he wear white for the wedding as per tradition. Charles stares at his reflection in the mirror as the seamstress bustles around him, murmuring under her breath in vague frustration as she sticks pins into his pants.

Used to be, they'd make you wear white because omegas would bleed after taking the knot for the first time, often for more than a week. To prove that you were still pure. It's not the way they do it all across the world, but most cultures have some means of purity control. As if there ever was a time when you couldn't just hide the evidence or willfully pretend copulation hadn't occurred.

Doesn't make a lick of sense, really. You imprint and then you're supposed to wait for some ceremony to be over before you get to fuck and pop out chubby little babies.

Charles bares his teeth -

\- he'd woken up the next morning in his own room, shaking and sweating and there was even more slick drying in between his legs despite the scrub-down shower he'd taken. Red specks mixed with the slick: the knot had been so big Charles, who had long since given up on trying to speak, managed to croak out a final _Stop_ as he felt it knot against his skin. Right as it had popped in, and that was it, Charles was stuck, glued like a fly to sandpaper, twitching legs and all. His body expanding to take it, welcoming it, _fill me with seed, impregnate me, yes_ and he was just shuddering with heat and exhaustion as Erik growled, and bit into his shoulder once again.

Although he did read once about a tribe in Papua New Guinea where the omega went into heat, invited every alpha within the vicinity to come breed, then kicked the alphas out afterwards and raised the child with their extended family of omegas. Any imprinted alphas were left to pine and get the fuck over it. Possibly that's the way to do it, but then what the fuck does he know?

"Ow," Charles complains, as a needle pricks his skin. "And the pants are too tight."

Mother tugs on the waistline, her mouth thinning with dissatisfaction. "Suck it in," she says. To the seamstress she says: "Tighter."

"I can't _breathe._ "

Her answering glare says, should have thought of that before you spread your legs now, shouldn't you?

Charles grimaces, and sucks it in.

Two more days. That's all, and at this point he can't decide if it's a relief or not. Mostly, he just wants it over with so he can sleep, perhaps for a week.

-

Erik looks even more handsome than usual in his black suit and white shirt. Of course he would. The man probably never met a suit that didn't count itself lucky to be sheathing his body.

Mother told him on the way to stop fidgeting, and so he doesn't, but Christ does it hurt. "We all make sacrifices," was what she said serenely when he bitched about it, and then she said, "But you look dashing, darling. Even if your hair is too long." He's still refusing to let her cut it. It's almost mulletish at this point. For today though, it's styled and crimped so it frames his face delicately with curls, and some magical concoction made his eye bags disappear and his eyes appear huge.

All this, for ten people and a judge. Charles invited Raven and her parents - who knows who Erik will show up with. Charles knows nothing of his friends. When he'd called Raven she'd said quietly, "It's not fair, Charles."

"Yeah, we'll. Life isn't fair."

"I don't think I can come. Would I have to smile? Make friendly conversation?" She sounded near tears again: Raven was never the strongest of omegas, despite her mother's attempts to toughen her up.

"Please, Raven," Charles said. "I need you there. Besides, I know you don't want to waste that beautiful dress you just bought on Ted Hoffman's wedding."

"Ugh. That horrible person. Why did he invite me he knows I loathe his slutty guts." She pauses. "The parental units said, if you're okay with it, they'd like to come. Only if you're okay with it though. They think you had some huge whirlwind imprinting affair. You know dad's a horrible romantic."

"Sure," Charles said. If nothing else, it would partially ruin Mother's day.

Raven's mother gives him a hug, followed by Raven's dad, who says, "I will be crying soon, don't mind me." Erik's only guest is some blonde alpha bitch named Emma that Charles immediately takes a dislike to, her smile at Charles somehow manages to be both condescending and predatory at the same time.

The judge clears his throat, "Sorry folks, but we should begin. I have another wedding in a few hours." He glances towards Charles' parents, then at Erik. "I'm told you're forgoing the traditional binding?"

Ah, the binding. Lacing of the left hand of the alpha and omega couple, so that they won't wander too far away from one another and neglect to breed. Or, heaven forbid, someone else manages to get in there and breed the omega while they're in heat.

"I'm already knocked up," Charles says cheerfully. "I don't think that'll be necessary, do you?"

Everyone stills, except for Emma, who snorts in amusement, and Charles revises his assessment of her somewhat. The judge doesn't seem to care though, he merely gestures for Erik and Charles to take seats in front of his desk. Charles fades out almost from the second he starts speaking, and he only snaps back in when he feels Erik's hand on his elbow, and he's leaning in, telling Charles quietly, "Sign here. Breathe, Charles."

_Breathe._

Charles signs sloppily on the dotted line, then lets the pen drop.

Mr. and Mr. Erik Lehnsherr.

Charles Lehnsherr.

He stares at the gold band on his finger until someone drags him up to give him a hug. Raven. "I'm not crying," she says, totally crying. She lowers her voice. "You can call me, okay? Even if it's just to yell at me."

"I will," Charles says dully. He doesn't even know where they're going. Erik presumably has an apartment in the city, but it might be a basement for all he knows, where he kidnaps omegas and does horrible things to them before dumping their bodies into the river. "You're not a serial killer, are you?" Charles asks, as Erik passes by.

It's the first direct thing he's said to the man - his _husband_ , all day.

Erik looks startled, but recovers quickly enough. "I should hope not," he says. He starts to say more, but Charles is already turning away.

-

The rest of the day passes by in a mercifully pleasant blur. Even Kurt manages to behave himself, and when the time comes for them to drive off into the proverbial sunset Charles spots him cornered in conversation with Emma, a mildly terrified expression on his face.

If anyone deserves to be scared.

He wedges himself at the edge of the seat, as far away from Erik as he can possibly get. This close, Erik's scent is almost overwhelming. Charles has to breathe through his mouth just to deal with it. He presses his forehead against the windowsill as the car starts moving, grateful that Erik seems content to leave him be, although his breathing is heavy and labored.

"We're here," Erik says, and Charles starts.

They're in an underground parking lot.

Charles blinks and wipes at his eyes blearily.

"I promise you we're headed upstairs. No basement." Erik exhales. His entire body is tense and coiled, as if ready to strike at any moment. There's anger too, in the line of his jaw and the dark of his eyes, but it doesn't seem specifically directed at Charles.

"Upstairs," Charles echoes, and reaches blindly for the door handle.

Might as well get it over with, then.


	5. Chapter 5

Erik's apartment is big and sparsely furnished. Whatever furniture there is looks as if it came with the apartment or was chosen randomly out of a catalog for being expensive and as in-offensive as possible. It's indelibly Erik's of course, his scent is so strong it feels as thick as soup. Charles could probably taste it if he just stuck his tongue out. It's oppressive, heart-skipping.

Nothing personal at all, save for the menorah on the mantelpiece and the mezuzah on the door. "I thought you weren't religious," Charles says.

"My relationship with my faith is. Complicated."

Faith, not religion.

"Besides," Erik continues. "I didn't want to complicate things further. You're Catholic?"

"Oh, hardly." At Erik's look he clarifies. "Raised Protestant. Very lapsed. Kurt manages to resolve science and religion. I really can't." In church, when he was thirteen, he would sneak off and allow an altar boy to stick his tongue down his throat, bite down faintly on the back of his neck, all approximations of claiming and desire. Until one of the Priest's omegas caught them and chased Charles away, smacking the boy on his head and muttering about filth. It was rubbish: half the reason most alphas became altar boys to begin with was in hope that they'd one day be chosen to join the priesthood, and have access to any number of omega nuns that happened to go into heat. All the fun of rutting, minus the pesky bonding and inconvenient children. Priests didn't imprint, or were trained not to. Although Charles is pretty skeptical on that part. You couldn't fight biology. Raven used to bitch about it, threaten to break into the nunnery to steal their birth control pills, "Why should they be the only ones legally allowed to fuck without consequence," but it was all talk. She would never. Not like Charles.

Also: God hasn't done much for him lately.

But that's hardly why.

"Protestant." Erik's brow creases slightly.

"Yeah, we're the ones that believe that Jesus was an omega."

The laughter is unexpected enough that Charles almost flinches. "There is a sect though, that believes that," Charles says, flushing slightly. My roommate in Oxford was a member."

"Of course there is," Erik says. He jerks his head in the direction of the stairs. "The master bedroom's upstairs and to the left. Second door. The rest of your stuff will arrive tomorrow?"

"Yes. One hopes." It's not much: books and clothes and useless stuff of sentimental value he's worried Kurt will throw away in his haste to turn his room into a work-out area or something.

He can't bring his feet to move, until Erik says, "You go up without me. I have some business to attend to." Then he's gone, through what Charles assumes is the study door, leaving him to trudge upstairs.

Erik's bedroom: same non-decor as the rest of the house. There's a bathroom attached, a towel and a bathrobe laid neatly out on a dresser with an unopened box of toiletries. Charles lifts the towel to his face and finds it unmarked with scent.

Must be Charles' then.

Considerate, his husband.

He locks the door behind him and strips his clothes off before stepping into the shower, determined to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. He doesn't want to think what Erik might be doing, but he can't not. Pacing, possibly, right outside the door, like a beast waiting to pounce on its dinner. Most bonded pairs spend just about the entire pregnancy mating, it helps to cement the relationship. Foster protective instincts in the alpha towards their unborn child.

Charles considers the next six months or so, Erik rutting on top of him.

He opens the bathroom door and peers out, but the bedroom's mercifully empty, so he just tightens the robe around his waist and settles down on the bed, hands fisted into the soft terry cloth material. Erik will come up soon enough, surely. His heavy feet on the stairs as he readies himself to take what's rightfully his.

His stomach clenches, hot with anticipation. Not slick, not hard. Not prepared in the least.

_It would be easier if you bonded._

He desperately wants a drink.

In the end he curls up on the bed in fetal position, falls asleep with Erik's scent sinking deep inside his bones.

He wakes up alone on the bed, squinting against the morning sun. Floor to ceiling windows, how very gauche. Charles had curled up on the left side of the bed, but the right looks untouched. Erik hadn't come in at all.

Charles isn't sure whether to be disappointed or not.

It only drags it another day longer.

There's another room down the hall, Charles opens it and finds a neatly made up bed and Erik's scent, stronger and recent. Huh.

He wanders cautiously around the apartment, but it's empty. Eventually his wandering and an increasingly rumbling belly brings him into the immaculate kitchen. Charles opens the fridge: it's well stocked, but nothing seems prepared enough for mere reheating. He pokes dubiously at a packet of eggs.

In Oxford, he mostly ate at the cafeteria or relied on his roommate, who was the older omega to five younger siblings, and told Charles often, "It's fine, love. It's like being home all over again, having you to take care of. You remind me of my youngest sister. Spoilt as a lark, that one." Charles was mostly too grateful to have someone looking out for him and his uselessness to take offense at being called spoilt repeatedly.

But: Now he's here without any help around and he wants eggs, Goddammit.

His baby-thing- _baby_ , wants eggs.

Surely it can't be that hard, to scramble an egg. Perhaps squeeze some orange juice.

An hour later, he's sitting at the table smoking a cigarette, pots and pans and the smell of burnt food permeating the air.

At least he found where Erik keeps his alcohol though.

Speak of the devil. Charles starts at the movement but it's too late to do more than just sit there anyway. Besides, he's too damned tired to do much more than scowl furiously as Erik blinks at him.

"I was hungry," Charles says. "We're out of eggs."

"I see." He steps past Charles and starts fussing about.

"What on earth are you doing?" Charles asks, twisting about to face his back.

"Washing up. Unless you're not done with this yet." He picks up a particularly blackened saucepan, a failed experiment in attempting French toast. Charles always hated the French.

"I'm done. But you don't-" Have to clean up after me. Not that Charles has washed a dish in his life. Erik seems comfortable with it though, he sets about to turning the kitchen back into a pre-war zone with the sort of careless attention to detail that only comes from a lot of practice. "I'm sorry," Charles mumbles eventually, as Erik scrubs.

"I don't mind."

"You'll dirty your pants." Erik took off his jacket at some point, rolled his shirt sleeves up. He doesn't seem to notice that his pants are in danger of getting soiled, though.

"Did you manage to make anything edible?"

"No," Charles confesses. He waves vaguely at a plate of partially congealed eggs. "This was the best I could get. It's disgusting."

"I'll make you something," Erik says, hanging up the last pot to dry. "I have pasta."

"You'll _cook_?"

"Don't sound so surprised." He starts dragging ingredients out of cupboards. Charles had peered at some of them earlier on, but not bothered with even the attempt. "We should discuss your finances."

"What about my finances?" Charles asks warily. He pulls his feet up onto the chair to rest his thighs against his chest, wraps his arms around his legs.

"There's no real way to give your assets back to you. So I had my solicitor dump most of your trust in a joint account that you'll have full access to. You can speak to him about investment if you'd like, but be warned that he's a pain in the ass. I've also arranged to have credit cards and a checking account that's linked to mine - they should arrive in the mail any day now." There's something calming about watching an alpha display such easy self-assurance. Slows down the heart rate, lulls you into submissi-

Charles shakes his head, snaps himself out of it.

Erik puts a pot of water to boil and asks, "Do you want cream or tomato?"

"Cream, please. No, tomato."

"I could make a cream based tomato." He opens the fridge door and leans in. "Ah. I'm glad you didn't try for the chicken."

Charles watches him debone the meat with some measure of amazement. "Do you do all the cooking?"

"Usually not. There's a cleaning lady that comes in three times a week, and someone else helps me stock up on the groceries. A fair amount of it gets thrown away, I don't normally have the time so I tend to eat out."

"What do you do again?"

"I'm a consultant."

"Is that a real job?"

Erik grins fleetingly. "Yes. Can I have one?" He nods his head at the cigarette in Charles' hand.

Charles tosses him the pack sitting on the counter and says, "Aren't you going to tell me it's dangerous for the baby?"

"It's your body. I'm hardly going to-"

"Stop it," Charles spits out, suddenly furious. "You own it now. Stop asking for permission when it isn't necessary."

Erik leans against the counter, cigarette in his hand as he searches for a lighter in his pants pocket. "Is that what you want, Charles. Do you want me to stop asking for - permission?"

"No. What I want is this thing out of my body. Would you like to give me permission for that?"

Erik pales slightly. "You realize it won't - it won't nullify the marriage."

Oh.

He hadn't thought of that. No refunds. He's supposed to be getting thoroughly fucked even now, driven by thousands of years of biological imperative to breed. "It doesn't matter," he says thickly.

_He doesn't want this baby._

"Then do what you want," Erik says. He's shaking, the cigarette crumbling to pieces between his fingers. "I won't stop you." He whirls around and picks up a handful of pasta, tosses it into the pot of boiling water. The scent in the air thickens: whenever an alpha gets like this it's usually Charles' queue to duck and run before everything goes to hell.

He does seem to have a knack for pissing alphas off.

Years of practice on Kurt will do that.

But: "I can't anyway," he says finally. "I'm in my second trimester now."

The air tempers slightly, but only slightly. "So this was a test, then."

Erik pulls a saucepan out, sets it on an empty stove.

Butter, cream, tomato base, herbs.

Charles inhales deeply as the smell of cooking food rises. Such a difference when you actually know what you're doing.

"It wasn't a test." He rests his forehead against the fleshy palm of his hand. "I don't really know what I'm saying most of the time. I'm stupid that way."

"I don't believe that's true." His voice is as calm as it ever is, but his shoulders are a hard, tense line. "We'll have to have this conversation some other time. I understand you're not prepared. That we're doing this the opposite of how we should."

"That's one way of putting it," Charles says, only barely bitter.

Erik picks up the saucepan to swirl its contents into a plate, before finally turning around to hand it to Charles' eager hands, together with a fork. "I have to go back to work. Will be back with dinner, so you don't have to try to cook again. I had an extra set of keys made, they're in the bowl on top of the mantelpiece."

"Did you come back here on your lunch break?"

"Something like that. I just wanted to see how you were."

"Well I'm _fine._ " He sets the fork back onto the plate. "Thank you for the food."

"You don't have to thank me for anything, Charles." He glances down at his shirt, says, "I should change."

Charles takes a bite of his pasta. It's perfect, so much so that even his usually temperamental stomach doesn't roil resentfully. He continues to eat as Erik heads upstairs, then ignores his quiet "Goodbye," as he leaves.


	6. Chapter 6

He left an extra set of keys in the apartment. There's also access to his money, if Erik's not bullshitting him. Neither Sharon nor Kurt were foolish enough to grant him any sort of autonomy, not with Charles' general uselessness when it comes to anything to do with finances. He'd grown up with a reasonable allowance, and had to request for anything else. _Books,_ Kurt going, "Shouldn't you be concentrating on more important stuff, like making yourself presentable to an alpha so he'll even want to imprint on you?" Not how it worked, but Charles knew better than to be a smartass when he wanted something. Kurt looking him up and down, sighing before he handed over the cash and telling him sternly, "You father spoilt you, that's why."

Charles considers it, for a brief, exhilarating moment.

A greyhound bus to Las Vegas. An airplane ticket to South America. He could trek around Europe, visit all its museums. Go back to Oxford, he might still have friends there.

But then: he can't even scramble eggs, for fuck's sake.

Imagine, an alpha is more useful in the kitchen than he is.

But then: with this baby in his belly and an increasingly imbalanced hormonal system.

Who the fuck is he even kidding?

He finishes his food, and somehow manages to wash the plate and hang it up to dry without further disaster.

Score one for the domestically disadvantaged.

-

Charles' stuff arrives at some point. He waves vaguely at a corner when the workers ask him where to set the boxes, steps behind a couch when one of them gazes at him for considerably too long a time, the corner of his mouth curved up in a smile and a bright gleam in his eyes.

_Married, I'm married. With child._ Unimprinted, but surely no-one could tell. Grateful for Erik's scent in the apartment: there would be hell to pay if you touched a strong alpha's omega.

"Sign here," the same man says, holding out the clipboard instead of moving towards Charles. Charles glances at the other two delivery men, but they're in soft conversation, faced bored and vaguely impatient looking.

Charles doesn't have a choice. He steps forward and grabs the clipboard from him, signs it quickly, but not quickly enough. The man says quietly, "Well don't you have the prettiest blue eyes."

"Blue eyes are the result of a genetic mutation that affected the OCA2 gene over six thousand years ago," Charles replies. "Now if you're done here would you please leave."

The man's gaze darkens as Charles shoves the clipboard back at him. "Your alpha should have claimed you properly. Then maybe you wouldn't be such a cunt. _Freak._ "

He locks the door behind them as the file out and leans against it for a while, heart pounding in his chest. Just your regular asshole, he decides after a while, when he's thinking more clearly. There's no way to tell. Besides, what does it matter? He's been _claimed_ regardless.

Erik's scent, which was comforting a minute ago, is now sour against the back of his tongue. Charles dry heaves for a while before staggering to his feet.

Pull yourself together, Charles. Act like a Xavier.

The voice sounds suspiciously like his mother.

But: she has a point.

-

He'll unpack. That might help. There's a built in closet in the master - Erik's bedroom that's mostly empty. Did Erik empty it out for him? It's his room. Why would he just move out and allow Charles to occupy the space when he would just be moving back in to claim his rights soon enough? In some insidious grooming class he'd been forced to attend once he'd started to display signs of what his mother called rebellion and Charles referred to as "independent thought" it was always stressed that an omegas job was to please their one true alpha, even out of estrus. That they would want to, above all else, make the alpha happy.

Charles would wonder then: what's in for me, but at the same time it was seductive, the thought that he would bong together with someone for life. That the person in return would protect him, keep him safe.

Some kind of protection. Charles could use a gun, maybe a sharp serrated knife.

Mostly though, he could use some place to store his books. He leaves them in the corner for now, spends the entire afternoon curled up on the horribly hard living room couch. He must have fallen asleep at some point, because he wakes up to someone shaking his shoulder. Erik - Erik,

Charles screams, jerks back. "Don't touch me. _Don't touch me._ "

Erik lifts his hands up placatingly, palms forward. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. But it looked uncomfortable and I brought home dinner."

"That's because your bloody couch is not meant for humans," Charles sits up, rubbing the back of his neck carefully as he tries to delicately move as far away as possible from Erik. He can't deal with him like this. Not barely awake and still shaking off the usual dream.

"I don't uh. I don't sit on it often." If he notices Charles trying to unobtrusively move away from him, it doesn't show on his face.

"Don't entertain much either, I'll bet."

"We could," Erik says hesitantly, "I'm free this weekend. We could go out and pick something more appropriate if you'd like. The whole apartment needs redesigning. I'm not here that often."

"Can't we just pick something out from a catalog that looks comfortable?"

"Yes but I thought-"

"Okay sure. This weekend."

"You don't have to if you don't want want to," Erik says. He lowers his arms and moves further away, his voice soft, as if trying to calm a wild horse.

Charles refuses to be calmed. It's too much, all at once, for today.

"You keep saying that. I don't think the words mean what you think they mean."

"If they mean that I would still rather you want-"

"Why would if matter to you what I want? It didn't whe-" he cuts himself off abruptly, presses his lips together.

Nothing but Erik's sharp exhalation of breath. "It matters to me what you want, Charles," he says, after an endless moment, a stillness that Charles counts with the rapid-fire beating of his pulse: ta-dunk ta-dunk ta-dunk.

"Fuck you," Charles says, in between breaths.

"If you refuse to be even civil." It's the first his tone has hardened towards Charles, since they'd been dragged together again. It feels more natural on him, this barely subdued anger. Better than the solicitousness anyway -

\- He said, "Charles, that's your name? I like your lips. I like your lips, Charles." Lips like an omega's, made for being plundered, made for being fucked, until he choked.

It's over, just as quick. Erik fails at an attempt at a smile, but he's utterly calm when he says, "So you'd rather I order you around so you can feel resentful and petty even as you bow to my demands?"

_Yes_

_No._

How dare he?

"Couch shopping," Charles says brightly. "I'll pencil it into my calender. So looking forward to it. Is that civilized enough for you?"

Erik merely replies, "Your dinner is heating on the stove. I'll be in my study if you need me."

He rises swiftly to his feet and is gone.

Charles should have been this unpleasantly himself that night instead of the awkward attempts to flirt. If he'd known that was all it took.

The kitchen calls out to him with its promises of food, and he holds out as long as he can but eventually he can't resist, and he trudges to the stove to remove the quietly simmering stew from it. There's bread on the counter so he pours almost the entire contents of the pot into a bowl and starts sopping it up with hastily torn pieces. Halfway through he thinks: Erik might not have eaten yet. There's enough food for two.

But then: He is eating for two, so fuck it.

-

Erik doesn't come for him the second night as well, even though Charles waits up, the same as he did the previous night.

-

He also doesn't return for lunch the next day, but there's a covered plate of pancakes in the kitchen when Charles treks downstairs, and in the afternoon a harried beta bustles into the apartment, arms filled with bags. "Angel," she says, as she dumps the bags onto the counter and starts unloading them. "You must be Charles."

"Are you the help?"

"Is that what he said I was?" Her smile is wry. She's beautiful, for a beta. _Tiny._

Charles blushes. He can't recall. Erik had said something - someone dropped by? He'd just assumed. "He didn't call you anything."

"Yeah, sure. I'm his assistant. Don't worry about it." She glances down at her clothes. Office attire, if cut a little too tightly to be proper. "Someone mistakes me for the maid at least once a day."

"This is part of your duties?"

"Keeping him alive is part of my duties. Unfortunately, that also means making sure he eats. Or die trying. You can lead a horse to water. Unless," she pauses, her hand halfway to putting away a can. "This is your job, now? I don't want to step over your toes."

"No, you're not." Charles starts babbling. A list of what he wants: Fresh fruit, _cut._ His favorite brand of cornflakes, available only in selected stores. Goat cheese. _Brie._ Swiss chocolate, but not the store bought kind.

He peters out when he realizes she's staring at him, her expression a mixture of amusement and pity. She only says though, "Tell you what. I am not going to able to find half of these. How about I bring you down to the supermarket at the end of the week and you can buy what you want."

"Everyone keeps trying to take me out," Charles mutters, and she frowns. "But sure."

"Yeah, so." She puts another can into a cupboard. "I'm just going to finish unpacking here, then I'll leave. Cleaning crew comes in Friday, by the way. From an actual cleaning company."

"Do you need any help?"

"Almost done," Angel says brusquely, not breaking her practiced unloading of the groceries. "I have a system, it's all good. You can just rest or something, sweetie."

Charles sits at the counter instead and starts handing her cans. She accepts them with some mirth, but when the final item is put away she says softly, "You're not at all what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"With Erik? Fuck if I know." She snorts. "An alpha."

"I don't think that's even possible," Charles says, faintly alarmed.

Angel pats his hand reassuringly, and he knows he's being humored, but he can't help but smile tentatively back at her.

The last package she pulls out of a bag she hands over to Charles. "lunch," she tells him. "There's also a list of places that deliver, in case you don't like fish or you get hungry again." she pauses. "I'm to tell you he won't be back for dinner, so you can order whatever you like."

Like giving instructions to a child.

Charles clutches the food in one hand and the list in another and mutters a soft, wholly embarrassed, "Thank you." 

-

Angel's not gone a half hour before men in overalls buzz the intercom - "to install the shelving." Charles lets them in, but he can't handle another round of alphas in the apartment so he retreats into the bedroom, jams a chair against the doorknob until the noise settles down and someone knocks on the door. "Hey, we're done. We need you to sign the recipe. Charles follows him back down into the living room to inspect the floor to ceiling bookshelves before sending them on their way.

When they're gone he unpacks, spends the whole day organizing and reorganizing until every item is the way he wants it. Erik comes home at some point, the hair on the back of Charles' neck stands as he nears the bookshelves. "We should consider a bigger apartment when they baby's born."

"Why?"

"This one only has the two rooms. Plus I thought you might want some private space. A study of your own perhaps."

"For the important papers on child rearing I'm going to write?"

Child rearing. In six months or do, give a take, he'll be a father. With all the adjunct responsibilities that come along with it: diaper changers and late night feelings and comfort when needed. Mother always had someone to take care of him: he would get deeply attached for a few months and then one day he'd return home from school and she would be gone. Consuela Doreen Alex Maria Gabrielle - he still keeps them warm in their heart, for all that their affection was fleeting and paid for. He could foist this one on nannies as well, avoid the messy complications. Provided Erik approves. He seems like the type to insist in proper parenting, all teaching them how to go potty and how to mind their ps and qs and tuck them in at night with kisses and warm milk.

"The baby," Charles says flatly.

"We don't have to discuss this now. A few months?"

A few months.

A lifetime of this, a lifetime of being here with Erik, with their child. More than one, if he goes into estrus again and Erik mates with him.

"I thought perhaps we could go out for dinner. There's a place I frequent just around the corner. Or we could order in if you're tired."

Nothing of yesterday's conversation has sunk in. The man seems determined to ask.

Door number A or door number B.

All roads lead to here.

"I could eat," Charles says tightly. "Let's go out."


	7. Chapter 7

He hadn't bothered showering the whole day, so he spends a half hour making himself look somewhat presentable. Considers tying his hair back into a ponytail, but gives it up as a lost cause. Erik's showered himself, he smells faintly of musk and aftershave, trading his usual three piece for a polo shirt and tan slacks. He doesn't comment on Charles' ratty jeans and old sweatshirt combo, and Charles soon sees why. The place is, as promised, tucked into a corner, and is tiny and warm and Erik is warmly greeted by the proprietor, who kisses him on both cheeks before turning a brightly curious gaze towards Charles, who shrinks back slightly. "This is Charles," Erik says. "My. We were married recently."

"Married? Erik you should have told me you'd finally found a mate. And already pregnant, how delightful. You always did work fast, Erik." There's a faintly apologetic look in Erik's eyes as the woman, _Andrea_ , Charles is informed, grabs him by the arms and kisses him on the cheeks as well.

"Aren't you lovely," she says, but there's an accessing look in her eyes, and after she releases Charles she's careful not to touch him once again. Instead she links arms with Erik and leads him to what Charles assumes is his regular table.

"I'll be back to take your order," she says, pushing a menu at Charles before bustling away in a swirl of good intentions and warm thoughts.

Charles flips aimlessly through the menu for a while until Erik says, "I'll order for the both of us."

"Please. Just - is there a wine list?"

"There's no wine list, but I'm certain we can get you a glass." There's an edge in his voice when he says _a_ , Charles snaps his head up, but Andrea's returned and he's smiling brightly up at her. Charles doesn't absorb most of the words he's saying, he's too busy listening to the warm cadence in Erik's voice, the tilt of his head as he speaks. Too busy considering: Erik as a person who has friends and collegues and hole-in-the-walls where he goes to relax, who exists beyond the man who held Charles down by the back of his neck while he breathed breathed humidly into the shell of his ear and whispered, _"You're mine, Charles."_ -

\- that part remains true, at least.

The wine arrives, but Charles twirls the stem with his fingers instead of taking a gulp like he wants to. "This place, it doesn't seem your style."

"And what does seem my style?"

"More - sterile, I suppose."

"Do you think me sterile?"

"I barely know you." He hadn't put much concscious thought into it at all, and yet he'd come easily enough to various conclusions.

"I know a fair bit about you. My solicitors were quite thorough when your stepfather showed up throwing accusations around about your defiling at my hands."

"To what end?" Charles asks, frowning. "To see if I slept around? Or what - you thought maybe I was a goldigger trying to trap you by showing up on the edge of going into heat?"

Erik says, "They insisted. I didn't doubt your virtue at all."

"Why?" Charles bares his teeth. "Because of my family name? Trust me, we're not all that virtuous, or-"

"Charles," Erik interrupts, kindly, Charles thinks. "I knew. I could tell."

Of course he could. Charles might have said it even, once or twice.

_I've never._

_I'm not that type of omega._

Charles says: "I just assumed you were too overcome by my pheremones to retain much lucid thought."

"You were lucid enough. We're not _animals._ Even us alphas."

"Could have fooled me," he mutters. The wine is increasing in appeal with each passing second, but then again, so is the tightening in his belly. He will not throw up in Erik's favorite restaurant with a whole bunch of Erik's people - and they are Erik's people, he's been nodding his head politely in acknowledgement of other diners almost since they sat down, all of them shooting curious glances Charles' way. Erik's raggedy, ill-kempt mate. He's glad that he didn't bother to dress up. Petty, but when has he ever not been? "Why didn't you invite anyone to the ceremony?"

"What?"

Charles waves vaguely around him. "These people seem to enjoy you. I didn't look all that knocked up. Why only Emma?" And who, pray tell, is the mysterious Emma Frost?

"Emma's my oldest friend," Erik replies. "Everyone else - I have acquaintances. Contacts. I wouldn't call them friends."

"The lone wolf."

"So I had thought. At some point you just assume you will never." He stops, then starts, slowly and carefully, "Charles, about that night, if I -"

The food arrives, sparing Charles the rest of what Erik's about to say. Sparing him this fucking conversation, headed somewhere he doesn't have the mental capacity to deal with. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Erik is silent for most of the meal - delicious, as expected - his entire demeanor shrouded in dark thought.

After dinner, Andrea hands Charles a doggie bag far heavier than what they'd left uneaten, says, "For the baby," when Charles raises a brow at her, and refuses to allow Erik to pay in anything but hugs. "Your ma must be so pleased," she says, when she finally releases him. Erik mutters something incomprehensible before saying his final goodbyes and exiting.

It's nippy outside, spring turning into winter early, Charles shivers slightly and Erik, who'd had the foresight to put on a leather jacket, takes it off and drapes it around his shoulders. It smells heavily of alpha, but it doesn't seem to matter all that much anymore. He's _cold._ "Your mother," Charles starts, as Erik falls into step next to him.

"Is back in Germany," Erik replies non-committally. "She never could get used to America, or Americans for that matter, and at some point she finally became tired of whining about it and went home."

"She didn't want to come to see you married?" He doesn't mean to pry. No: he means to pry. Erik's an only child, this he gathers instinctually - inherently selfish in the smallest of ways - _Don't you ever have to share your toys, Charles? No, they're mine._ \- but Charles had pictured him an orphan somehow, or estranged from his parents.

"No, she did. But she wasn't feeling well so I told her I'd send her pictures. She might fly down soon though, she's anxious to meet you." He holds the building door open for Charles as they head into the apartment complex. "And before you ask, my father's dead. Heart attack when I was twelve."

Ah.

"Are we to commiserate over the mutual deaths of our fathers then?"

Erik doesn't respond. When they enter the apartment he says, "I need to make a business call," and turns away.

Charles almost asks: are you going to fuck me tonight?

Why aren't you already going it?

_is there something wrong with me?_

Clearly there is, if he's considering asking a question about something he doesn't want in the first place.

Count the small blessings, don't look a gift horse in the mouth, ya da ya da -

"Did you say something?"

"Hm? No. Your jacket." He slips it off his shoulders, holds it out.

"Just leave it on the couch," Erik says. He retreats back into his study, tossing a "goodnight," over his shoulder,

"Goodnight," Charles says, to the closed door. He walks upstairs slowly, mouth dry and legs shaking slightly. 

-

It's the cramping that wakes him up. Not the first time: baby is easily upset. Temperemental. Must be an omega child.

But then: slick, hot and thick between his legs. He sits up, breaths coming in short spurts, hot hot _heat_ -

Must be false alarm like the others, he's already pregnant don't panic don't panic don-

There's a dull thud from outside the room. Charles throws the covers off and staggers to his feet. He needs to get out of the room. Needs to go where the scent is stronger, where someone can fill him up the way they're supposed to. Dimly, he's aware that he's groaning, and it takes him a while to even get the door he's shaking so, but finally he manages to wrench it open and he stumbles into the hallway, stumbles down toward where Erik is standing, legs apart and skin gleaming darkly in the dim light. "I need-" Charles says, or maybe he doesn't speak at all. Maybe he just grunts, and whines, and falls into Erik's open arms.

_Oh god no, not this. Not him, not here, not like this._

_Not again._

A litany in his mind, he tries to focus, but each time he breathes Erik's scent overwhelms him and all he can think is: please please please.

Fill me up. Fuck me. Throw me down onto the ground and take what's yours.

Erik growls and lifts Charles up by the underside of his shoulders, pushes him against the near wall. His cock is hard, pressed against the curve of Charles' thigh. Charles whimpers, and Erik whispers, "Wrap your legs around me." Charles complies immediately, and he buries his face in the crook of Erik's neck as Erik strides back down the hallway towards the bedroom. The door's fallen closed, he kicks it open and deposits Charles unceremoniously onto the bed. Fingers hot on Charles' skin, teeth hovering near his neck as Charles tilts his head back - I submit, just _please_ , Erik's groan rough and wild and demanding, this is what they were made for, all of them.

But then: the air cools as Erik extracts himself, lifts himself off the bed and he's walking away so swiftly Charles doesn't follow for a moment, thinks for dazed moment he'll be back, but the air keeps getting cooler as their distance gets further apart.

Where is he? He's not leaving surely he'll come back oh he's gone.

Everything _hurts._

Finally Charles struggles to his feet once again and this time when he leaves the room there's no-one there, nothing but the whiskey laced fire of Erik's scent, heady with unfulfilled promise. He reaches Erik's door in no time at all, finds it locked. "I know you're in there," Charles says, pressing his face against the door, exhaling wetly as his fingers slide uselessly against the doorknob. "I can smell you. _Erik._ " He dips his hand between his legs desperately, slicks it up, smears it against the wood: this is a white flag, a declaration of surrender, a promise.

Why is this happening to him?

"Go away, Charles," Erik calls out, and Charles can hear the strain in his voice, as if it physically hurts him to even speak. He's pressed against the door as well, Charles can feel him, all his strength and his power, just waiting to plunder. "Just go back to sleep."

Charles has to laugh at that. "Surely you can't expect me to sleep right now. Why won't you just-" Take what's yours. Charles is amazed he can even speak, even articulate a word that isn't a desperate whine. The slick between his legs is getting heavier, his stomach clenching with lust. "Why?"

"Because I _can't._ " He sounds anguished. There's a dull blow, and then another, the sound of an open palm hitting wood over and over again. "Go back to your room, Charles. That's a command. I'm - I'm ordering you. _Go back to your room._ Lock the door behind you."

The only response Charles can think of is an inarticulate moan.

"Leave," Erik says again.

Charles rears back. The thudding in his head fades away, and all that's left is the need to obey. But he wants, he wants. He shoves the fleshy part of his palm into his mouth, tastes himself as he almost runs back into his room, slamming the door shut violently behind him. Locks it. Unlock. Lock again. Unlock. Over and over and over again, and by the time he tires of it enough and collapses into bed he's done it so many times he doesn't know whether the door is unlocked or not. If Erik would just come in and take him. He jerks off furiously, fitfully, and the orgasm doesn't do much to relieve the tension in his bones, but it must help, at least a little, because sleep overcomes him soon enough. He drifts off to Erik's fading scent in the air, mingling with his.


	8. Chapter 8

Two things occur to Charles in the morning: 1. that he's not dead. 2. more's the pity, then.

Erik is, predictably, not in the apartment. The tiniest of favors. Charles feels _disgusting._ He showers for about an hour, then strips the sheets clean and dumps them in a basket he gets from the laundry room. Puts them to wash, along with some of the other clothes he's left strewn all over the bedroom floor. Charles isn't the messiest is persons, but Erik is almost obsessively neat and so Charles has been leaving the bedroom in an increasing state of disorder: here there be dragons.

Not that it was Erik that made a shameless fool of themselves yesterday. Charles kicks viciously at the empty basket and spends the next ten minutes staring at the final load of clothes spinning - he'd found some of Erik's earlier in another basket and separated them for washing: whited, colored, material obviously meant for dry clean. Erik 's clothes are mostly neutral, save for a red or striped tie. Charles considers him briefly in different colors - a pale blue shirt to bring out the same shade in his eyes eyes, before he snaps himself forcibly out of it.

What's wrong with him?

Nesting, a voice in his head cheerfully informs him. You're getting ready for baby. An alpha to complete the family, to protect you and the helpless child from wolves and creatures that go bump in the night. Now don't you feel lucky, Charles? The voice turns low, spiteful.

Charles kicks at the laundry basket again. He needs another shower. His entire body is riddled with Erik's scent, like a disease.

"That laundry basket must have pissed you off real bad. Why are you trying to kill it?" He jumps at the voice, turns towards Angel, leaning against the door with her arms crossed. She's not wearing a suit this time, just tight jeans and a dark pullover, paired with heels that are about five inches high.

"It exists," he mutters, coloring faintly.

"You sound like my dad." She tilts her head, asks, "Did you forget, Charles."

As a matter of fact he has. Is it Friday already? It has to be. "I didn't forget," Charles says pointedly. "You're early."

"No I'm not. I'll wait though if you want to finish. I have some work to do anyway. You do realize that you don't have to do the laundry all by yourself?"

"I like doing the laundry. It helps me think." Mostly, in college, sitting in the laundry room while his roommate flirted with random alphas, considering the decoding of the human proteome and the physiological state of each individual cell or, more often, how he couldn't learn how easily flirt even with years of watching others. But observation didn't lead to successful mimicry, merely a large amount of data rendered useless in practice. Smile covetously. Giggle. Display the curve of your neck. The tilt of your pelvis indicates willingness to mate at some point. There's no signal for _Close, but not too close._

"Erik's going to be pissed if you ruin his suits." She pushes herself off the door and wanders in, her heels loud across the tiled floor, but she doesn't do more than idly pick up a neatly hung shirt - his roommate had showed him how to iron too - and sets it back down again. "Come along, princess. We want to make it before the supermarket closes."

"I can go grocery shopping by myself," Charles says irritably.

"Sure, of course."

-

They end up in a supermarket Charles has never been in before; he wanders up and down the aisles and tosses in just about whatever catches his eye. He'd imagined it would be intimidating, after being kept home for so long, but on a Friday afternoon the aisles are empty save for omega mates and their children, plus a few random betas. It's soothing, the absence of the sharp alpha scent - there are only a few of them in the supermarket that aren't children.

At some point he loses Angel by taking too much time in trying to decide which type of shampoo to buy because the one he's used all his life is out of stock: "Omega women, omega men, alpha women, alpha men, betas. _It's just shampoo._ "

"No, see," Angel says, tossing her own lustrous locks behind her shoulder. "This one has aloe vera for maximum shininess and bounce."

Charles picks up the light green bottle doubtfully. Angel shakes her head and throws a darker green one into his shopping cart. "That one's for women."

"I'm not a big fan of aloe vera though."

"Yeah," she says, her tone indicating exactly how much she doesn't care. "I need to buy some Erik stuff. I'll catch up with you afterwards."

Charles panics for a brief period, he's not been alone outside in over three months. She's just around the corner though. You'll be fine. He ends up with five different bottles of shampoos and two different conditioners before he manages to tear himself away from the brightly colored array, and somehow wanders into the gardening section. He picks up a packet of cherry tomato seeds at random, and then of course he has to get the corresponding pot. Fertilizer, shears, gloves - Angel shows up as he's trying to find a place for a watering can.

"What on earth."

"For the balcony," Charles says, faintly defensive. It's true: the apartment has a balcony which has obviously long been disused considering how rusted the hinges were when Charles slid open the door.

"You're going to plant on Erik's balcony?" She seems to find this funny. "There are no plants in our office. Not even the fake plastic ones."

"The apartment could use some livening up, and I have a green thumb." He's not touched a gardening tool in his life before today.

But Angel's already losing interest, she tilts her head in the direction of the cashier counters, says, "If you've got everything you need, let's go. I'm starving."

Angel takes him to a nearby restaurant, leads them to a private booth in the back. Charles waits until she has a few glasses of wine in her and her eyes are pleasantly glazed before he starts grilling her:

What do you guys do?

Have you met his family?

Does he kick puppies in his spare time or is he the type of person that gives money to panhandlers?

The answers, in sequence:

Not any of your business.

Not any of _my_ business.

Somewhere in-between.

"Erik's cool," she says at some point, leaning her head back against the booth and sighing contentedly. She'd taken her shoes off at some point, crossed her feet underneath her compact little body. "Most people don't even bother to look at my resume, they take one sniff and point me in the direction of the service industry."

"You do his grocery shopping for him," Charles points out.

"No-one's perfect," she says, pouting prettily. "Ugh. I don't want to talk about Erik while I'm wasted. I might say some shit I regret and then I'll be out of a fucking job. Also order some coffee. Erik will kill me if I bring you home drunk."

"I won't tell him, I promise."

He might be a little drunk himself.

"No I-" She wags a finger at him. "I know how you guys get when you bond. Suddenly it's "us" this and "us" that. All that knotting fucks your individuality right up."

"It's not always like that. Besides, I - wait." Something breaks through the sweet lull of the wine. "Did Erik ask you to take me out?"

"Ah." There's a flash of guilt across her face, quickly chased away by blankness. Erik's _assistant._ Right. "It wasn't like that," she says. "Erik just thought you might enjoy getting out of the apartment."

"I don't need your pity," Charles snaps. "I have-"

"Dollface," Angel cuts in. "Trust me when I say I have my own shit to deal with and none of it leaves room for pity. What do I have to be sorry over you for anyway? I should be so lucky to not know how to wash a goddamn plate."

"Well wasn't this evening delightful. I do so hope we do this again."

His buzz is now almost entirely gone.

He blames Erik.

"Look, I-"

"Oh, and my name is _Charles._ You can call me that, or you can call me Mr. Xavier-Lensherr if you'd like. Either way is perfectly fine with me."

Angel sits up straight, says, "So you do have a spine underneath all that," she makes a waving motion with her hands, encompassing all of Charles' frame, "wilting delicate flower thing. Guess if it works, huh?"

"It's not a thing," Charles says stiffly. "I can't help who I am. Now would you please take me home."

Angel calls them both cabs instead, and when she bundles Charles into his she leans into the window and tells him, "It's not that I didn't enjoy your company, dollfa-Charles. But you're married to my _boss._ "

"I wasn't expecting us to become best friends, Angel." He turns resolutely away from her. "But thank you, for today. It was fun."

It really had been.

At the very least it passed the time, and it means he can put off talking to Erik about it - if he can put off talking to Erik about it.

-

More pressing matters anyway, such as: "I have my own friends. I don't need you to arrange for your employees to entertain me." One friend. He has the one friend. But Erik doesn't need to know that. He jerks his scarf off angrily and glares from the safety of the doorway.

Erik's in the living room, sitting on the uncomfortable couch, reading a magazine with the tv turned down low.

Waiting up for him, Charles realizes, almost immediately after his outburst.

No one has ever - he shakes his head, determined to hold on to the indignation. It's better than the alternative, better than having the conversation about last night.

Obviously Erik feels otherwise. He shuts the magazine quietly and says, "Is that what you're really upset about, Charles?"

"Yes."

"I think we should talk about last night. "

"I don't want to talk about last night." His _shame._ Even now a part of him is stirring, a vulture circling in the distance, insistent and distracting.

How can Erik sit there so calmly, while Charles is constantly in the verge of flying off the edge, nothing but frayed ends barely held together by spit and a fucking prayer.

Forgive me, for being so fucked in the head.

Forgive me, for having no self control whatsoever.

_I hate you_ Charles thinks.

"I don't want to talk about last night," Charles repeats, with conviction this time.

Erik looks conflicted, but then he says, "She mentioned she'd promised to take you to the supermarket. I merely suggested that you might enjoy an evening out as well. It was hardly foisting. It was either that or entertain a Japanese client of mind that's known for having an odd fetish for beta females. She chose the far more pleasant option, trust me."

"So you basically had to blackmail her to spend time with me."

He doesn't care anymore though. So what?

It's exhausting, keeping up with pretending to be indignant.

Charles slumps his shoulders, and Erik visibly relaxes.

"That's not exactly how the conversation played out." A smile tilts the corner of his mouth upwards. "You're being difficult on purpose."

"I get that a lot."

"I bet you do."

Angel had arranged to have most of the groceries delivered. Charles says, "My stuff-"

"I packed most of it away. The gardening tools I'm not certain what to do with. We don't have a garden."

"You have a balcony," Charles points out. _Don't look so pleased. It's not for you._ "Ah, if that's allright with you."

"It's your place as well, Charles. I hope some day it'll be a home too."

Doubtful, that.

Charles can't bring himself to say that, though. Instead he says, heading towards the stairs, "I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed."

"Lock your bedroom door. I had a deadbolt installed on the inside."

He pauses on the steps and turns around. "Kurt installed it on the outside."

"I'm not your stepfather."

"No, you're not. Erik, why won't you-"

Why wouldn't he?

He'd begged for it. Different from the first time, when the heat had left him wanting but confused, when he'd just needed a second by himself to gather his thoughts, take a breather, have a cold fucking shower until the lust sloughed off his skin and swirled down the shower drain. Maybe the heat got progressively worse the longer you remained pregnant. Maybe by the end of it he'd be nothing but a writhing mass of desire, open and needy and insatiable. He tries to recall, other pregnant omegas, but they all seemed relatively coherent, if grotesquely swollen and scent-marked.

The things they don't teach you in sex-ed.

"Should I," Erik says gravely. "When you can't even bear to look at me most of the time?"

Charles holds on to the banister, grips it tight until he can see his knuckles turn white with exertion. "Why does that matter?"

"Of course it matters." He stands up, and Charles immediately climbs further up the stairs, stopping at mid-level. "Would you be less afraid of me if I fucked you the next time this happens? If I knotted and stayed in you for hours? Because that's what will happen, and the heat will fade away long before I'm done. Is that what you want, Charles?"

The blood drains from Charles' face. "You don't have to be crass about it. If you don't find me attractive just say so."

"That is not," Erik says, edging ever closer as he speaks, "The point. And you know it."

Charles keeps moving backwards as Erik heads up the stairs slowly. One step and then the next, blindly moving up. He wants to turn and run, but he can't decide if that's the better option or not, to turn his back on Erik. Erik's probably only had anyone turn their backs on him when they're certain they could get away. Charles has never been the fastest of runners. "Don't," he whispers instead.

"Don't," Erik says, halting on the step below Charles, catching up easily with one giant stride across three steps. Like this, they're practically the same height. He searches Charles' face, as if he's looking for something he doesn't find. "I would never hurt you."

"You're a liar." He starts crying, he can't help it.

"Am I? Why." Erik's voice is calm and soft, but it's far more of a demand than any other that Charles has ever heard in his short, restricted life.

"Go to hell," Charles says. He turns and flees, not caring anymore. Slams the door behind him, _deadbolts_ it, oh the smallest of favors, leans his face against it until he can breathe again, until the tears stop falling.

-

He doesn't fall asleep until past midnight, waiting, but it doesn't happen once again.

-

In the morning he's surprised to find Erik in the kitchen, cup of coffee in one hand and holding a newspaper in another. "Charles," he begins, a faintly apologetic expression on his face, but Charles shoots a spiteful glance at him and then he only says, "I made you toast."

Charles doesn't want toast, but his stomach rumbles, so clearly it feels otherwise. He sits fitfully at the dining table and drags the place towards him, mumbling a reluctant thanks when Erik places a mug of what looks like hot chocolate in front of him.

Erik clears his throat. "I'm leaving," he says.

"Okay."

"No, for the week. Maybe two." 

Charles stops slathering butter onto the toast long enough to lift his head. "I see."

"Business trip to Tokyo. Sorry for only letting you know at the last minute. I was going to tell you last night, but. My flight leaves tonight."

"Japan? The guy with the beta fetish?"

A smile flickers across Erik's face. "Yes, him."

"Will it be a week or the two?" He puts the toast down and pushes the plate away, not hungry anymore.

"Most likely two," Erik admits. "John will be there to assist you if you need anything, and Angel's always available as well provided you're fine with that. I've taped their numbers to the fridge door."

"It's okay," Charles says, waving Erik away. "I'm perfectly capable of lasting a couple of weeks without you to run my life."

He's being unfair: Erik has done no such thing.

But after yesterday, all he wants to do is claw at the man until he bleeds. A thousand and one papercuts, starting with the one.

Not that he knows a thing about causing hurt to Erik, it's impossible when you can't tell what the other person is thinking at any time. Erik is the ocean, vast and unfathomable.

All this, to avoid thinking about being alone for the first time in his life. Panic crawls under his skin. He tries to clamp down on it, to give the outward appearance of calm anyway. Under Erik's watchful gaze he says, "I'll be _fine._ "

"I'm sure you will. We were supposed to go out."

"Oh, yes. We were." This he hasn't forgotten. Marked it in his calender and all. "After breakfast?"

"You look exhausted. Maybe you'd like to take a nap first before we leave."

"I just woke up," Charles says. He picks up another piece of toast and pushes himself off the chair. "I'll take a shower, then we'll go. _Couch shopping._ " Upstairs, after a hasty shower, he stares at his face for a far too inappropriate amount of time, examining it for differences. It's rounder, like his belly. Softer. Further and further away from who he used to be. The freckles on his cheeks are stark against the paleness of his skin. Could use a bit of color, but his skin skips right past tan into burnt under about five minutes in the sun. A summer weekend away once with Raven's parents, he'd fallen asleep on the beach and woke up to Raven's golden face, telling him, "Oh my god Charles you look ready for dinner." So much for that vacation, he'd spent the rest of the time there lobster red and in pain, too humiliated to leave his room for more than his meals. Not the right kind of color: his mother used to say that alphas are attracted to red cheeks because the blood's closer to the skin, but that's bullshit. Lack of melanin isn't a measure of any kind of attractiveness in the animal kingdom.

His mother.

Charles hasn't heard of her in - he's been here a week. That's how long he hasn't heard from her. Not long at all, which makes sense, no one is eager to interrupt a newly wedded couple, linked together and expected to rut, day in and day out. Their home reeking of nothing but pheromones and giddy sex - what would Angel have thought, coming into the apartment to find them so separate.

Not for lack of trying on Charles' part though. Or at least on the part of his traitorous body, aching for the touch of an alpha.

"You'll understand when you're old enough," she used to say, the few occasions when he'd gotten past the veritable fortress of help she had surrounding her to keep him distracted and away, and he would be awash with questions like he always was, being unable to keep silent for more than five seconds. Perhaps if he'd been a _quieter_ child she might -

\- how long hasn't she thought of him? No visit, no phonecall, no "Hello Charles I'm glad the alpha we made you marry hasn't killed you yet. Cheerio, then."

Not that he'd expected her to care.

He has her face, regardless.

This child -

\- but Charles has more important things to consider, obviously. Like: What couch is he going to get?

He pinches his cheeks before he opens the bathroom door and heads downstairs. Pink, for color.

Erik suggests mildly that he wear a coat as they're getting ready to leave. "You're not dressed warmly enough."

Charles has elected for pants this time, a dark grey pair that was too loose six months ago, and paired it with a thin wool pullover in only a slightly lighter shade of grey. "It's not that cold," Charles mutters, but when Erik reaches into the hallway closet and emerges with a light winter jacket he doesn't object, merely allows himself to be bundled into it. It's unfair, Erik shouldn't smell this _good_ , shouldn't make it so easy for Charles to want to obey him without question and then have him turn around and ask politely, all please and would you and Charles wants to meet his mother, now, a woman would would raise a child so different from what Charles imagined.

Ask him three months ago what type of person he thought Erik Lehnsherr was.


	9. Chapter 9

In the car, his eyes keep falling closed, and after a while he doesn't fight it anymore. He wakes up to a hand, soft on his cheek. "We're here," Erik says, his breath tickling Charles' hair and sending a spider-wave of warmth down his spine.

Charles forces himself to move away on un-coordinated limbs - his body had been having such a good time - struggling for lucidity. He'd somehow ended up nestled against Erik's shoulder when he'd fallen asleep. "Did I drool on you," he asks, eying a suspiciously dark spot on the navy cotton of Erik's turtleneck.

"Only a little. It'll dry."

"Urgh." Charles makes a face and yawns. "Let's just go home so I can sleep. We can do this when you come back from Japan. I'll just live with that torture device craftfully disguised as a couch for a while longer."

"I did tell you to catch a nap first."

"Yes, clearly I'm always wrong and I should be punished for not listening to my alpha." His voice comes out harsher than he'd expected, and Erik's smile fades away.

"Come along," he says, after a beat long enough for Charles' pleasant sleep haze to fully fade away. "We don't have a lot of time."

The furniture shop is filled with more alphas than the supermarket, mostly accompanied by their omegas. Erik is wholly out of place here, when he steps in every alpha's head turns, and even Charles can sense their sudden uneasiness, the awareness that there's superior predator in their presence somehow. All the pretense at civility, and it still comes down to this: who will survive to reap the spoils.

Charles doesn't want to be anyone's spoil, not anymore.

But then: he already is.

Bought and paid for. Not branded, like they used to - and still do in some parts of the world - as if being scent-marked isn't enough, as if being owned isn't enough. As if, even if Charles hadn't told, even if he'd not been shunted off to the hell reserved for the really ill-behaved omegas, he would have had a chance of marrying at any time in the future.

Not that imprinting leaves anything to chance, but Charles has to wonder - Kurt and Mother imprinted upon one another mere months after Father died, although Charles has doubts as to whether Mother ever did or not, surely you wouldn't take to bed for the entire month of the anniversary of someone's death if you've imprinted on someone else. It's not as if anyone does the test anymore unless there's a dispute, and the alpha's claim is rarely disputed. 

An alpha wanders, too close to them, and Charles shrinks back, grabs onto Erik's hand. Erik's only reaction is to tighten his grip and say, "Come on, let's move further in, I think the couch section is over there." To the alpha he spares a dismissive glance, and the alpha turns away.

Must be nice, to command fear so easily.

But if he belongs to Erik, then surely he should instill the same type of instinctual reservation, just by simple fact that alphas don't react well to anyone touching their toys.

Charles pulls away, staggers slightly. "Are you alright, Charles," Erik asks. He slides his newly freed hand into his pants pocket as Charles bites his lips. "Or is this another question I'm not allowed to ask." There's no sarcasm in his voice, just a flat sort of resignation.

"No, you can ask. And I'm -"

It's faded away now, and all that's left is Erik's face, patient and concerned.

He should be more appreciative.

Most omegas aren't this lucky.

"I'm fine," he says, and actually he does feel perfectly allright.

Mood swings, once again.

Charles falls almost immediately in love with a hideous monstrosity of a couch, simply because it's there when he gets another dizzy spell and has to sit down, and then it's so comfortable he can't bear to leave it. "This," he says dreamily, and beams up at Erik.

Erik shakes his head. "It's certainly very. Purple."

"More of a maroon I should say. But the gold complements it nicely I think."

"Gold, yes. Why wouldn't you want a giant purple - sorry, maroon couch threaded with gold flowers."

"They're _sun_ flowers." He tries to stand up, but the couch isn't willing to let him go. Erik seems content to just watch him with idle amusement, hands still slid into his pockets. Charles extends a hand, and after some hesitation it's grabbed and he's pulled to his feet. "We don't have to," Charles says, lowering his gaze. "We should search for something else."

"Ah," someone says, and Charles jumps. It's the manager, magically sidled up next to them. "This couch is directly imported from Italy, made from the finest velvet-"

"Velvet," Erik interrupts.

The manager's preternatural cheer falters briefly, but he bolsters himself again soon enough. "Purple is the color of royalty," he says, a little desperately, meek alpha waves drifting off of him in an irritating wave.

"It's maroon, or so I've been recently corrected." They're still holding hands. Charles doesn't mind so much now, but Erik seems to notice it, and he releases Charles. "We'll take it."

"You will?"

"Yes. My mate seems to have grown rather attached to it."

"Ah, of course." The man visibly relaxes, grinning briefly. "Omegas, eh. You don't give them what they want and you'll never hear the end of it."

"No," Erik says, simply enough, and the man actually steps back, adjusts his tie nervously.

"I'll go settle the payment details then." He does an about turn that's almost military and marches off, not looking back once.

"You didn't have to," Charles says, raising his eyes.

"Why. You obviously like it. I don't particularly care."

"No, that's obvious." He pauses. "But it's horrendously tasteless. It redefines gaudy."

They both stare at it for a while.

"It's from _Italy_ ," Erik says finally. "And they do say you should decorate around a centerpiece. This would be uh, that."

"Conversation starter, for certain."

The manager doesn't return, instead an equally nervous assistant bustles over to complete the sale. Charles loses interest rapidly enough and as she's busy talking to Erik and paying him no mind at all he meanders off searching for a bathroom and somehow, through a series of increasingly misguided decisions in an attempt to return back to where he started, he ends up in a section that sells - ah. Cribs and changing tables and a little wooden rocking chair: he stares blankly into space for a long, lost moment until a voice cuts through the haze.

"First one's always the most difficult."

"What?"

"The first child." The beta smiles encouragingly at him. She's tall, dark brown hair pulled up into a tight bun that gleams under the light as she bends her head and caresses a wooden cot with little horses carved into the grain. "Everything's new and scary, and you always worry that you'll make a mistake. They're far more resilient than you might think though, I promise." She leans closer to him and whispers conspiratorially, "I'll tell you one thing. Most of the stuff here you don't actually need. Just the basic stuff, they outgrow it all eventually. Unless you tend to have another one, but these days."

Charles shakes his head. He hadn't even planned on having this one. "I'm not," he says, a little desperately. "It's too early to buy anything, isn't it. I'm only four months along."

"It's never too early to be prepared. Depends on the parents, really. Some of them come rushing in almost as soon as they find out they're pregnant."

"That seems unwise, considering more than twenty percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage."

"I-"

He's stunned her into silence. Charles sees his chance to escape, and makes a break for it. Not really looking at where he's going, and when he turns he runs smack into a broad chest. _Erik._

"You disappeared."

"I was looking for the bathroom. I got lost." He glances uneasily behind him, but Erik doesn't seem to have noticed what section they're in.

"I'm hungry," he says. "Let's have lunch."

-

There's a suitcase neatly packed in the living room when they return back to the apartment after lunch. "Your assistant," Charles asks, as Erik drags it to the door.

"I suppose," Erik says distantly. "You know where the numbers are. She's on call if you need her."

"Yes. Do you want me to follow you to the airport?"

Erik stops. "Do you want to see me off?"

"I suppose I should."

"Wanting to and thinking it's something you should do are two entirely different things."

"Hm," Charles replies. He sways a little on his feet.

"You're exhausted, Charles. Go and take that nap. I will see you in a week."

After he's gone, the apartment feels entirely empty, bereft without its owner. Charles trudges upstairs and collapses in bed, only wakes up early the next morning. The apartment still feels empty, pheromones fading without its source to leave marks behind.

He decides, maybe, he'll just stay tucked under the covers all day, only leave for food and water and to use the bathroom.

-

This is how he spends the next three days.

Sometimes the phone rings, insistent and annoying, but Charles ignores it.

-

On the fourth day he's sick and tired of take-out and even more tired of smelling like overripe fruit and most of all sick and tired of the fucking phone that keeps on fucking ringing.

"Oh for god's sake what the fuck do you want?"

He tugs on the cord and the phone crashes unceremoniously to the floor. Charles winces and stretches his hand out, feeling around until he gets the receiver back into his hands. "Hello?"

"Charles. "

Erik. Oh, _Erik._

"You're in Japan," Charles says stupidly.

"They do have phones there. I've been calling you."

"Yeah, I've been-" Busy ignoring the phone. His cell battery's been flat for days. But then: who else could it have been. He tries to recall if Erik ever receives calls directly to his home, but the phone on the dressing table has been largely ceremonial up until now. "I've been busy. I think this phone is broken."

He may have attempted to murder it once or twice, for disturbing his sleep.

"I was about to send Angel to check on you." There's concern, sharp and guilt-inducing over the line.

"I'm sorry." Charles wraps the covers more securely around him and slides down onto the floor, props himself against the bedframe.

"No, I didn't mean to sound short with you. I was worried. But of course you're fine."

"I'm fine," Charles parrots. Of course he's fine, why wouldn't he be? It's not as if he's never been alone before. It's not as if he's entirely useless, unable to even get out of bed to take a bath because the thought of dealing with the mess the bedroom has become - the cleaning crew arrived at some point and Charles allowed them to clean every room but this one, stayed barricaded behind the door and tucked into his bed until they left. It's not as if, in four days, he's managed to accumulate a small pile of dishes that are piled up accusingly at the foot of the bed. It's not as if he misses the company of someone, anyone, even if it's Kurt or the household help or Mother -

\- "I just called to hear your voice. What's that you say? Who am I? Your only son. Soon to be a parent to your grandchild. Does that make you feel old? Do allow me to tell you how it makes _me_ feel."

There's a clanging on the other side of the line. A woman's voice, low and throaty. He recognizes it: the appropriately named Emma Frost with her still iciness and her frosted golden hair. An alpha. What did Angel say about Erik and alphas?

"Charles, I have to go. I'm late for a meeting."

"Okay." Charles clutches tighter at the receiver. "Will you call me again? Maybe tonight?" He sounds desperate to his own ears.

"I will." There's a long pause. "Take care."

After Erik hangs up Charles stares into blank space for the longest time before he finally drags himself to his feet, almost stumbling over the carpeting as a wave of dizziness hits him. It would be a shame if he hurt himself.

Help, I've fallen and I can't get up.

He makes his way into the bathroom and spends about two hours in the claw-foot bathtub, scrubbing himself clean at first and then just lying there, unable to bring himself to leave. Charles opens the stopper slightly and keeps the tap on a slow open trickle, so the water's continuously hot, to the point where his skin reddens. He's putting on weight still, there's the tiniest of bumps in the usually flat plane of his belly. He spans both his hands across it, imagines himself five months from now, bloated and ready to burst. His chest is already tender, nipples darkening even as they increase in size.

Baby's on the way.

Ten fingers, ten toes. He did always want to be a parent, just perhaps not now.

_Not this way._

He only manages to drag himself out of the bathroom when he can't stand how pruned his fingers look anymore. Wraps himself up in the bathrobe and stomps out, determined to clean up. Strip the sheets, wash the dishes, at some point he finds himself searching for the vacuum

cleaner - it's in a hall closet, and once he starts in the bedroom he can't stop, so he has to vacuum the rest of the apartment as well.

Once he figures out how to stop tripping over the power cable. And how to - why are there so many attachments to it? Which one is for which? Not that the rest of the apartment needs vacuuming. Charles pauses, at one point, outside Erik's door. He's not been near here since -

\- he tries the doorknob, surprised to find it open. There's nothing special about the room though, it's almost identical save for size to the master bedroom. Erik's scent is stronger here as well. Charles opens his mouth to breathe it in, and that's when the clenching hits his stomach.

Not again, not here and _not again._

He staggers to the bed and falls onto it, but the sheets are new and don't smell of anything at all. His clothes are too tight now, Charles kicks off his jeans and throws his sweatshirt over his head, rutting against the mattress desperately as the slick wets his thighs. At some point - Charles doesn't know when, in between one dazed peak to another, each one higher than the other and just when Charles is convinced this is the end, it will stop now.

At some point, the phone rings.

Unthinkingly, Charles picks it up. Erik's voice is like a spike to his chest, an electric signal directly to his cortex. "Erik," Charles breaths, hoarse and needy. "Oh, God Erik."

"Charles are you allright? What's happening? Are you hurt?"

Not hurt. He's dying, this is what it is. He's dying and no-one's here to help him. No-one's here to allieviate this wretched thirst, this constant and endless want. "I can't," he mumbles, and surely Erik can't feel him from halfway across the world, but Charles wants him to, wants him to, "In me. I'm alone. There's no one." His breath hitches, and he's unable to speak anymore.

"Charles, you need to calm down," Erik says.

"Mrrph," Charles rumbles. Fuck this noise. Fuck all of it.

"Yes you can. Take a deep breath. And then another. That's it."

It works, somehow. At least he can speak again. "Erik-"

"Just calm down."

"Don't tell me to fucking calm down. You're my mate. _Help me._ "

He doesn't even know what he's saying anymore.

Erik's silent on the other end for so long Charles despairs that he's hung up, and he almost jumps when he starts speaking again. But he sounds - different. Commanding. He says: "This is what I want you to do. Pay attention. Are you paying attention? Good. I want you to reach between your thighs. Can you do that?"

Charles can only respond with a harsh moan, even as he's driven to comply. He falls onto his back and switches the receiver to his other hand so he can push his right inside his legs. He's so wet, and open. He wants to slide his fingers in, but Erik didn't say - oh, he's speaking again, he says -

"You can push one finger in. But just the one."

It's not enough. He pushes himself more into sitting position so he can easily reach, spreads his thighs apart. The heat is spiking again, unfurling from his spine upwards, and it's not enough. "Don't stop talking, please please - oh please."

He's babbling. There's something wet on his mouth, it tastes like blood. Must have bitten his lower lip at some point. Charles gives another strangled moan, and over the phone Erik's breath hitches. "Charles," he says, and he sounds strange. "You can - you can slide in another finger now. Push them in, as deep as you can."

As deep as he can. He tries, clenches involuntarily around them as he bends further inwards, and if he crooks them just, "Ahhh-" he can hear Erik breathing, in time to the thudding of Charles' heart. "Another?" A plea, more than anything.

"Yes."

Charles does just that. He imagines it's Erik's cock, filling him up. With his voice in his head, he can almost believe it. There's a spot, somewhere, he tries and keeps trying and at some point - he comes, quite unexpectedly, come splattering hotly over his belly. "I just came," he tells Erik conversationally.

A beat.

"I see. Are you then still-"

"Yes." He slips his fingers out and slides back down onto the bed, pushes his face into the pillow, manages to do it without dislodging the phone from his ear. Its not over, it's just a lull, and even now he can feel the heat rising once again. It's not a wonder they call it heat, every single cell of his is on fire, all the blood sent to the surface. "You should be here," he says, almost incohate with need. "But then you won't fuck me anyway even if you were. I don't remember why now. Oh, oh-" There's no response on the other line, and he starts to panic, "Are you there? Don't leave me."

"Charles," Erik says thickly, "My love. I will never leave you. Please just _breathe._ "

Charles hums sickly under his breath, and eventually he says, "Keep talking to me. I want to hear your voice."

"What would you like me to say?"

"I don't know. Anything." He swipes his hand across his sweat-beaded forehead, twists and turns in the bed, as if the silk sheets will cool him off somehow. "Tell me a story. Read me something."

"I'm in a hotel room in Tokyo. Even the room service menu is in Japanese." There's a rustling noise. A faint rattling. "I did bring a book though. My mother gave it to me as a birthday gift. It's a collection of Grimm's fairytales. I used to love these when I was younger. But it's in German."

"Was it your birthday? Happy birthday."

"Not recently."

"My mother used to throw me these god-awful parties, and invite all these dreadful children I barely knew." The memory cuts briefly through the fog, birthday cake and chasing Raven through the garden and the sour feeling of rejection when Mother invariably disappeared and left him to the help and relative strangers. "I hate birthdays. Read to me."

"I can try to translate."

"No. I don't care. Read to me in German." A thought hits him: "Is there German erotica?"

"I'm entirely certain there's erotica in every language in the world."

"No, yes. There would be." He gasps, and bites wetly down into a pillow. "Fairytales are good though."

"Allright."

Charles squeezes his eyes shut as Erik starts to read.

"Es war einmal eine kleine süße Dirne, die hatte jedermann lieb, der sie nur ansah, am allerliebsten aber ihre Großmutter, die wußte gar nicht, was sie alles dem Kinde geben sollte. Einmal schenkte sie ihm ein Käppchen von rotem Sammet, und weil ihm das so wohl stand und es nichts anders mehr tragen wollte, hieß es nur das Rotkäppchen." He stops. "That's Little Red Cap."

"I'll huff and I'll puff," Charles says drowsily.

"No, that's another one. This one's about a little omega girl, not pigs."

"Was she an omega? I don't recall as such."

"It's mentioned in the text, yes."

"Ah." Charles squeezes his eyes shut. "Did she go into heat in the middle of the forest?"

"No."

"I'm burning up," Charles says. "It hurts."

"Shhhh. Just listen."

"Don't leave me."

"I won't."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone, I know I promised new updates, but food poisoning+me being without pc access put a little damper on that. I promise I will start updating soon!

Charles opens his eyes and it's daytime. Not much of a sun, it looks ready to rain outside, clouds fat and heavy, but he squints against the brightness nonetheless. It takes him a moment to orientate himself: not his room, although the glass walls are identical. The air stinks of stale sweat and fading pheromones, and when he sits up with a groan he finds himself liberally splattered with bodily fluids. Disgusting.

And yet.

There's a receiver on the pillow next to him, quiet and innocuous. Charles picks it up and sets it gently back into its cradle. _Yesterday._

That inexplicable maddening heat once again.

The man that stares at him from the mirror in the bathroom he staggers to has the corners of his mouth turned up though. Charles touches his lips, his still flushed cheeks. He can't remember the last time he smiled. Laughter seems like an alien thing, the privilege of people who aren't him. It's not as if he can even remember more than jagged bits and pieces of the day before. Erik's voice, mostly. Warmth. The overwhelming sense of being -

He shakes his head at the thought before tearing himself away from his reflection to take a hot shower, humming under his breath as he shampoos his hair and washes away the grime.

The rest of the day passes in a mostly pleasant blur. He does another pile of laundry and fails to cook yet another meal, putters around the apartment for a bit before he ventures back into Erik's room around dusk to see if there's anything else that he needs to put back into order. On impulse, he opens the drawer next to Erik's bed. It's empty save for a photo frame consisting of a picture of a severe looking woman with the smallest a thin, sullen looking boy, nothing more than big sad eyes and a downturned mouth. When Charles picks the frame up another photo drops to the floor. He picks it up. It's -

The photographer was irritating as fuck, at some point Charles threatened to have him killed, but he seemed unimpressed by the lackluster threat, only winking at Charles and going, "Smile love, you're only getting married once if you're lucky. And not all of us are fortunate enough to land a hot chunk of alpha like that." _You don't know the half of it,_ Charles muttered in response, but the man blithely ignored him.

In this shot: Charles is looking off to the side his head bent and half obscured by the curls of his hair. Erik next to him, in profile, hand reaching but not quite touching Charles' elbow. There's an expression on his face that -

Charles shoves both photos back into the drawer and slams it shut, his world spinning for the longest of moments until he manages to get a hold of himself again - Erik's voice in his head, _Breathe, Charles. Just breathe._

It's not. He can't, surely.

It's not fair to expect him to deal with more than one apocalypse at a time.

Isn't it enough that Charles has to live married to the man? Bear his child? Put up with his infuriating consideration for Charles' well-being, his delicate care and concern?

He should be a monster. Charles is intimately acquainted with dealing with those. Kurt version 2.0. Charles can deal with broken arms and a bruised cheek, deal with sudden rage and the need to bargain for even the littlest of freedoms.

You tune out and you shut down and bury everything deep within where nothing can find it, and on the surface you're an untouchable mirror, reflecting nothing of import.

It's as if Erik is trying reach in and grab hold of all the bits and pieces of him that he reveals to no-one, drag them out into the light and tear them apart, piece by piece, just by behaving himself.

Killing him with kindness.

Erik, of all people.

Oh, he will never get used to this.

But then: it's early in the marriage yet. There's some hope that it's just that - well, they call it the honeymoon period for a reason after all.

Charles isn't sure which prospect terrifies him more: that things will change, or that they won't.

The phone rings shrilly, loud and accusing, and Charles starts. There's no-one else this could be. Charles clamps down on the tightening in his chest, the rising sense of warmth, and picks it up with some hesitation. Erik only sounds as calmly neutral as he always is though, his voice stripped of the intimacy of last night.

Last night. All the bits and pieces don't make a whole. Like everything else that happens in estrus, it's just bright flashes and overwhelming emotional overload. Lust, shaken, not stirred. "I'm better today," he replies, in response to Erik's polite queries. "How about you?" A thought hits him: "What time is it over there?"

"It's early," Erik admits.

Charles checks his watch. "Early? Erik, it's three am over there."

"The time difference took me a far longer time to figure out," Erik says, sounding amused.

"Shouldn't you be asleep though?"

"I don't require much sleep." He pauses, a soft, contemplative pause, before he continues, "Old habits. I was in the armed forces for a while."

"German?"

"No." There's a muffled sound. "Hold on. I've been waiting for some papers, I think they've arrived."

Erik's gone for a while, giving Charles the chance to orientate himself. He could just hang up, claim a bad connection afterwards if Erik attempts to call him back. That's what he should do. Instead he settles down on the bed, props himself against the headboard and throws the covers over his waist. The sheets are fresh, if haphazardly tucked in. Charles doesn't understand why corners exist. When Erik returns he says, "I'm sorry. These are important."

"Important enough that they need to be delivered at three am. Is delivery service twenty-four seven in Tokyo?"

"Hardly." There's more sounds, paper crackling and Erik's slightly heavy breath.

"Do you need to go?"

"No. I'm done. I just needed to look at them."

"You should sleep."

"Do you want me to hang up?"

Yes, a voice in Charles' mind helpfully supplies. Say yes. Instead what comes out of Charles' mouth is: "How's Tokyo."

"Lovely. I feel very tall."

Charles imagines suddenly, the tiniest of omega boys and girls, sleek dark hair and milk white skin and Erik, wrapping his beautiful hands around a tiny waist. The most perfect of omegas, silent and submissive. But then what does he know, he's never been there to notice if they walk two steps behind their alphas at all times or not. He's known of a few people who mail-ordered beautiful omegas from China in the homes they would be less demanding than the average American one, only to find after a few months that they were a nightmare, and they couldn't even be returned. Does Erik think of him a nightmare without a return policy? Make the best of what you got with what you got.

Something else he's heard: they anoint the alpha with oils before they - Erik, body gleaming golden and naked - he shakes, but it's not the beginning of heat, just regular old. What? Lust, maybe. Jealousy, surely not. He clears his throat. "Is this the first time you've been there?"

"No. But the last time I was mostly acquainted with my hotel room. I hope to do more this time," Erik says. "Emma's been threatening to forcibly drag me out to explore the nightlife, and it's usually best not to deny that woman anything."

"Yes, Emma." Charles has gone back to disliking her once again, for no reason other than he wants to, for all that's he's only met her the one time.

Never let it be said he's not capable of petty spitefulness.

"Her, and a few others. My team."

"You have a team."

"Yes," Erik says smoothly, before switching the subject, "Are you eating well? I told Angel to drop by next week, she's ordered some health supplements. You don't have to take them, but she informs me they're helpful with the lightheartedness and with rebuilding your energy."

"And the benefits to your unborn child I suppose are only incidental."

He can't stop it. He's never been able to keep his mouth shut. Never.

"Charles," Erik says.

"I understand."

"No, you don't. The baby - you don't have to believe me. But the child isn't my first priority."

The look on his face.

Charles swallows a sob. "I have to go."

"Allright," Erik says. He sounds weary. "Goodnight, Charles."

-

Two nights later, when the phone remains silent, Charles can't take it anymore. He picks up the receiver, in his own room this time, and dials the number Erik gave him with trembling fingers. "This better be good," Erik snarls, on the fifth ring, voice thick with sleep.

"I'm sorry - I thought you didn't sleep, you said. It's early over there. I'll hang up."

"No, don't-" There's a groan, the sound of movement. Erik must have sat up. "It's fine. I was napping. I tend to nap, rather than sleep. See, I'm awake now. Are you allright, Charles? Is everything okay? Are you-"

"No, I'm fine. I'm," He clutches at the sheets, twists it until the material is crumpled, then tries unsuccessfully to smooth it out once again. "You didn't call. I guess I just wanted to tell you, ah. The couch arrived. It's even more ugly here than it was in the store. All the rest of the furniture in the apartment are ashamed to be acquainted with it."

"We could replace the rest of the furniture if you wanted."

"I could do with a new coffeetable."

It's glass. It will have to go when the baby arrives anyway.

Might as well start child-proofing now.

Erik chuckles. "Hey, I spent at least two minutes picking that out from the catalog."

"By that you mean Angel did?"

"Yes. She's uh. Very efficient. Not the best interior decorator, though."

"Probably because that's not what you pay her for."

Erik hrms. "The city's beautiful, Charles. You would like it, I feel."

"I can barely navigate around this city, and I grew up near it. I doubt I'm capable of dealing with an entirely different culture." He'd barely ventured out into Oxfordshire, the entire time he was at Oxford, and any weekend forays into other parts of England he'd respectfully declined, until his roommate eventually stopped asking, even though she said the invitation was always open. "You should get out more, Chuck. Get some sun."

"I'm afraid all the inbreeding has rendered my skin incapable of surviving any type of prolonged exposure to sunlight without bursting into flames."

She'd stared at him then. "You're an odd duck, Xavier. But studying the genome sequence of the fruit fly is not going to get you a mate, that's for sure."

Turns out, she was both right and wrong.

"You sell yourself short," Erik says, sounding faintly exasperated. "I wish you wouldn't keep doing that."

"If wishes were horses," Charles mutters.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just you've already said that. I can't change who I am."

There's a sigh. "None of us can, I suppose."

Erik seems even further away than Japan now. As if he's from a distant star where you changed your environment to suit you instead of the other way round. Of course Erik likes Japan, it probably falls at his feet to accommodate him, trembles when he walks past. All that self assurance: if Charles could bottle it. "We should try to end our conversations better," he tells Erik now, closing his eyes as he curls up on the bed, kicking off the offending sheets as he does so. They'll need to be washed soon. The work is _endless._

"Yes we should."

"You could read to me again." He can't quite catch the memory of what was read to him, only Erik's voice as he did so.

A delicate pause. Then Erik says, "We finished Little Red Cap. I could start on the next one."

"Do that, please."

"Hold on." He disappears for the longest time, and when he returns Charles is startled from the edge of sleep. "This is Fitcher's Bird: Es war einmal ein Hexenmeister, der nahm die Gestalt eines armen Mannes an, ging vor die Häuser und bettelte, und fing die schönen Mädchen. Kein Mensch wußte, wo er sie hinbrachte, denn sie kamen nie wieder zum Vorschein. Eines Tages erschien er vor der Türe eines Mannes, der drei schöne Töchter hatte, sah aus wie ein armer schwacher Bettler und trug eine Kötze auf dem Rücken, als wollte er milde Gaben darin sammeln. Er bat um ein bißchen Essen, und als die älteste herauskam und ihm ein Stück Brot reichen wollte, rührte er sie nur an, und sie mußte in seine Kötze springen -"

Charles dozes off, somewhere towards the end, Erik's words inside his head.

-

Raven drops by while Charles is trying, and mostly succeeding, in making lunch, the second week into Erik's trip. She wrinkles her nose in the living room, then zeroes in immediately on the couch.

"What on earth is that?"

"It's more comfortable than it looks," Charles says, slightly more defensive than warranted. This he knows from experience: he spent the entire previous day rolling around on it like a dog on a soft rug. It's his couch. He might have named it Steve. "Are you going to just stand there and gape?"

"No." She holds out her arms and Charles hugs her. "Jeez, I feel like I've not seen you in forever. But it's been what, a couple of weeks at most? You managed to get fatter though," she adds disapprovingly.

"I'm well within the parameters of weight gain," Charles says. "Continue speaking to me in that manner and you won't get any lunch."

"Ooooh, what's for lunch." She tosses her coat onto the couch and follows Charles back into the kitchen. "Charles, are you cooking? Is it safe to eat?"

"It's just pasta," Charles responds. Slightly overcooked pasta, and the sauce comes from the can, but it's edible enough.

_Baby steps._

Raven seems to enjoy it, after poking at her plate dubiously and entreating Charles to call the hospital should she double over in pain, but he knows her well enough to get that it's partly because she's the type of person that thinks ramen is perfectly palatable and partly because she's also the type of person that indulges him on a regular basis.

They cuddle up together on the couch afterwards, his head in her lap as she runs her fingers through his hair. "You still haven't cut your hair."

"I'm going to just let it grow," Charles says drowsily. Lunch makes him sleepy, and usually he takes a nap right after. Probably explains the weight gain more than the pregnancy, but he doesn't care enough to do anything about it.

"I always did maintain you'd make a banging girl," Raven says. Her smile fades into moroseness. Charles raises a brow, and she sighs. "I lost my job. Mom keeps bugging me to go to college, says it's never too late. But firstly, my grades aren't nearly good enough to get me anywhere decent without her pulling some strings, and secondly I don't see why. I'm only going to end up imprinting and then it'll just be taking care of my mate and babies. Dad tells me that's kind of the point, that if I go to college at least the chances are higher that someone with a future will imprint on me, and not some loser from the bar."

Charles snorts. It's impractical, for all the nonsense surrounding bonding and imprinting, that there's only one person out there that's truly genetically compatible with you. What if you're born in Texas and the other person is born in a tribe in the Amazon forest? Variation in the gene pool makes for healthier children, and yet people keep imprinting on those that are almost exactly like them, in social status and race and education levels.

All the lies we keep telling ourselves.

Would he have welcomed Erik courting him, slowly and surely?

_Yes._

A thought: "Did you meet someone, Raven?"

Raven actually flushes. "Her name's Irene. You can't tell anyone."

"Who am I going to tell? Besides," he puts his nose near her belly but he only smells omega. "I can't smell anyone on you."

"That's because we haven't done anything yet. She says she wants to woo me properly." Raven rolls her eyes, but there's a secretly pleased dreaminess on her face. "Mostly I just want her to claim me already, but she's taking it slow and like. What if we don't imprint on one another? What if there's something wrong with me? Maybe I'm just a freak. Like, maybe I'm actually a beta. A half-beta half-omega."

"There is no such thing." Charles sits up, only to tuck his head against her shoulder. "No, there is. But that's a condition that's identified at birth. You have nothing to worry about. I don't-" He stops because Raven's pulled away, horror etched on her features. "What's wrong?"

"Charles, you're _bleeding._ "

In the end: he's more worried about the couch.

But the blood hasn't seeped into the velvet. Raven threatens to call for an ambulance, even as Charles showers and yells back at her, "It's stopped bleeding, I swear." She pokes her head into the stall and stares at the water dripping off him, at it swirling into the drain. But after the initial gush that he hastily washes off the water's remained soothingly clear, and Charles doesn't feel any ill effects from it.

It has to be something though. No-where in that stupid baby book did they mention random bleeding.

Raven apparently feels so as well. "Charles Francis Xavier," she snaps. "You get yourself to a doctor, or I swear I'm calling your alpha."

"He's in Japan," Charles responds churlishly, flicking water at her. "Good luck on that one."

"You're such a brat, this shirt is silk." She screams and ducks out as Charles grabs the showerhead and waves it threateningly in her direction. "I'll wait outside, you suck."

When he emerges from the bathroom, he picks out a dark pair of pants and a loose fitting sweater and avoids Raven's cross-armed and judgmental stance. "I promise I will go to the doctor," he snaps at her finally, just as she's opening her mouth.

She doesn't seem convinced. "Yeah I remember all the times you got sick and promised me you'd go to the doctor. This is different, Charles. It's not just your health you have to be concerned about."

"I said I would go." He scowls as her face relaxes, and after a few more earnest promises he finally manages to get her to leave, with a stern warning about the repercussions if she found out he'd disobeyed her.

It's not fair, none of it. He didn't ask for his body to be taken over by this thing, this parasite. He didn't ask to have to care for someone else's life even before they were born, to be responsible for whether it got enough nutrients or was happy and contented. The book suggested that development started almost immediately upon conception, and that his state of mind and general health had a large bearing on what kind of child was produced. Charles' state of mind since this baby was conceived: fucked.

His general health, as he raids the liquor cabinet for a bottle of whiskey: a joke.

Raven's resourceful though. She would call Erik. He would fly back, or worse still, get Angel or that giant chauffeur of his to drag him bodily to a doctor. Charles leans against a wall, clutches his half-filled tumbler to his chest and makes the call, the number that's conveniently also stuck to the fridge. _Dr. Armando Munez, perinatologist._ The cheerful receptionist doesn't falter one bit when Charles tells her he hasn't yet been to any kind of ob-gyn, or even a regular general practitioner. "There was just some bleeding," he says. "But it's over now."

"Dr. Munez is very booked into the middle of next month, but you need to get in to see someone immediately, so how about I give you a list of doctors you can call. Charles, is it? Charles - ?"

"Xavier," Charles replies automatically. "No, uh. Lehnsherr. That's my married name."

"Lehnsherr. As in Erik Lehnsherr?"

The tone in her voice changes when Charles murmurs an acquiescence, he's put on hold for a while and when she returns she brightly tells him his appointment will be eight am tomorrow, "Try not to be late, no food from ten tonight, do you understand that, love?"

"Duly noted," Charles replies, and hangs up.

Did alcohol count as food? Probably.

Well it's not ten pm _yet._

If Erik notices the slight slurring in Charles' voice when he calls in the evening, he doesn't mention it. Instead he talks about his sudden and inexplicable addiction to Japanese game shows, and how nothing tastes like fish that's freshly killed and sliced right in front of him by a master chef, and allows Charles to ramble at some length about Raven's visit and how he didn't burn down the kitchen while making both lunch and dinner, thank you very much. His days are so mundane compared to Erik's, and yet Erik responds as if it matters. As if _Charles_ matters.

"When Raven was here-" he starts.

"Yes?"

"Nothing. Tell me another story."

-

Dr. Armando Munez is an omega. He slides his stool over to Charles as Charles puts his feet awkwardly into the stirrups and smiles reassuringly, clipboard and pen in hand. "Jolene tells me you experienced some bleeding yesterday."

"Yes," Charles says. Munez is wearing a wedding ring, and there's the distinct scent of alpha draped all over him. "Your alpha allows you to keep working?"

"My alpha is twenty," Dr. Munez replies, with some degree of amusement. He must hear the same question, over and over again. "He's not even out of college yet, and one of us has to keep a roof over our heads." It must be Dr. Munez' own practice then, it's not often omegas are kept hired after imprinting.

"I hear they make concessions for situations like these. When the alphas are so much younger."

"No, they talk about concessions. Politicians wank about it. Reality is very much different." He puts the clipboard down and places his hands over Charles' belly. "Tell me if this hurts."

"No," Charles says. He winces as the hands press down harder. "There, a little."

"You're doing fine, Charles. I'm just going to take a look inside." He slides over to Charles' feet, and busies himself under the gown. "Just relax. It won't hurt, but you might feel a little uncomfortable."

Charles tries his best to unclench, but it's not easy. Dr Munez' hands are gentle though, and he keeps asking questions so Charles can almost bear the invasion. "How long did the bleeding last? How much was there, was it just spotting or a dark bleed?"

"I don't-" Charles hesitates, trying to formulate the question in a manner that's less humiliating. _Fuck._ "I keep going into, ah. Estrus. Or it seems like it's estrus. I don't know. Is that normal?" He could have done his research on this, found out an answer within two seconds. Why wait until now?

Dr. Munez stands up to toss his gloves into a wastebasket. "It's unlikely that it's the cause of your bleeding, no," he says. "We should do an ultrasound." Charles nods his head as he puts on another pair of gloves. "As to the cause of the estrus, it's likely because." He sits once more, and puts his hand on Charles' shoulder. "You're married, but you've not imprinted?"

Charles turns his gaze to the ceiling, feels the blush rush to his face. "I don't see why that's an issue." Or any of the doctor's business. What if he knows Erik though.

"Unfortunately, it is," Dr. Munez says, and he sounds sympathetic. "It's a biological reaction to not imprinting. In layman's terms, your body will seek out a mate to protect you and your unborn child, until it does so and it feels safe."

The ceiling fades away into the distance, the white far away and blurry. "So this will keep happening so long as I don't imprint?" His voice sounds remarkably steady, considering.

"Yes. Charles, I want you to know that you're my patient, not your mate. If there's any way I can help you."

It's a false promise. Full disclosure is required by any doctor if the bonded mate requests for the medical records. This, despite all the dead omegas when their mates find out something they shouldn't. Why the planned parenthood keeps getting blown up, other than the obvious pro-life nutcases. They keep _secrets._ "You can't help me," Charles says despairingly. "Unless you can make it stop."

"No, I." He pauses, continues carefully. "I'm sure you're aware that there are pills. Heat suppressants. Charles twists his head towards him, suddenly hopeful. But Dr. Munez shakes his head. "It's not even that we're not allowed to prescribe them. They've not been tested on pregnant omegas. There's no telling what effect they might have on the unborn baby." This he tells Charles gently, but convincingly. "I can't stop you from seeking them out, Charles. But."

"Yes, I know." Charles turns back to the ceiling, exhales. "How do you know Erik?"

"Ah. He helped me with some issues a few years ago. Or I should say he helped my family."

"So you're friends, or just."

What kind of help? The kind that gets you a last minute appointment, no questions asked.

Dr. Munez is so _kind_ , so normal. No, not normal. Omega and running a clinic with a month and a half waiting list: he must be exceptional.

"We're acquaintances. You know Erik. Or I guess-"

"I don't." Charles continues to stare at the ceiling. "Well, we just. Uh. We're only recently married. How do you imprint, if you haven't already. Should we have sex?"

"It would help, yes. At the very least it should lessen the frequency of the estrus. Tricks the body, somewhat."

He doesn't ask why Charles hasn't imprinted, or any other question about Erik and him, and for that Charles is grateful. Instead he just instructs him to take his feet off the stirrups, and wraps a blanket around his lower half before he raises his gown.

"The gel's a little cold," he says.

Charles nods blindly, and fades out as his belly's prepped. The loud _whap-whap-whap_ shocks him back to attention. He blinks and seeks out the sound, it's:

Oh.

"There it is," Dr. Munez says. "Your baby. Or I should say," he presses a button on the screen, nods his head with some satisfaction. "Babies. Two heartbeats, can you hear them, Charles?"

Charles can. A double tap, two hearts, _whap-whap-whap-whap_.

_Oh._

"Can you - can you tell if they're boys or girls?" Or alphas or omegas or betas.

"Yes, if you really want to know. We'll have to wait a few more weeks though to determine what type they are. I can't speculate." Charles twists so he can see the screen more clearly. It's nothing much, just dark grey smudges against darker grey smudges, but Dr. Munez starts pointing the parts out to him, heads arms legs, _hearts_ , he sees.

"Gender," he asks.

"A boy, and a girl."

"Look at that," Charles breathes. "Look at them."

"I won't lie to you, Charles," Dr. Munez says, as he's finishing up. "The bleeding's a concern. But your placenta looks intact, and I'm going to do further testing on the blood we took. In the meanwhile, I'm not going to recommend bedrest just yet, but call me immediately if it happens again. Jolene's going to give you my private number, and a list of nutrients that I suggest you take."

Nutrients, right. He'll take them. He'll take all of them. In addition to the ones Angel dropped off, he'd been content to ignore them previously, chuck them aside in the medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror. After paying, he staggers outside, shields his eyes against the sun. "Everything all right, sir," John asks, his hand on Charles' elbow as he leads him to the car.

"Everything's fine, John. Everything's just fine."

They have to take another route home, there's some protest on the streets. "What are they protesting," Charles asks, cranking down the window halfway so he can peer out at the surprisingly civil protesters. He can't quite make out their signs.

"The economy, sir."

"What's going on with the economy."

John's eyes flick up into the rearview mirror to meet his briefly. "It's bad."

"Ah." It's not entirely his fault he's not been paying much attention. Had other things on his mind.

-

Erik calls, as usual, in the evening. Charles is on the couch, channel surfing aimlessly, waiting. As usual.

Strange, this pattern they've fallen into, so quickly.

"How was your day?"

"It was," Charles starts. "Uneventful. I checked the balcony: turns out the previous owners probably had a garden out there, so I don't have to worry about drainage issues or load bearing."

It's not a lie, exactly. He did spend half the day examining the balcony and determining that once upon a time, someone used it for more than just dead space.

"Yes," Erik says, amusement rich in his voice. "I do recall when I moved in that it was far greener whenever I glanced outside. Everything started turning brown at some point though, so I had it cleared away."

"Plants tend to die if you don't tend to them," Charles says dryly. "I'm considering some annuals, but it's close to winter, so perhaps some Eriantus, maybe mint. I need to check sunlight conditions, we're so high up, but the way I see it-"

"Charles, I was thinking." There's the sound of shuffling paper, Erik must be still working. Charles pictures him sitting at a table in his hotel room, three am and work spread out in front of him as he holds the phone in one hand and a pen in another. Face furrowed in concentration as Charles natters aimlessly in his ear. "I was thinking, maybe we should move out sooner rather than later. We could buy a house, some place with a proper garden, room for the child."

"But you work in the city," Charles says.

"I can commute. It's what people do, or so I'm told."

"I don't, I'm not-" Anxiety bubbles in his chest.

"Something to think about," Erik replies neutrally. "Tell me more about - mint?"

"I do enjoy a spot of tea."

"As one does."

"You're mocking me."

"I would _never._ " More rustling. "I have to be in London next month. Only for a few days, but you could accompany me if you'd like."

"If you want me with you-"

This game becomes increasingly futile.

Would he enjoy London with Erik?

Most probably.

"-sure, why not."

"Oh," There's surprise, a startled pleasure. It sends a burst of warmth through Charles. "I'll arrange for it, then."

"Is your business in Tokyo almost complete?"

"No." Erik sighs. "I apologize. I did tell you it would be two weeks at most. It looks as if it'll be another week at least. Two at the most."

"I'll have given birth by then."

"Well we can't have that," Erik says. "I'll try to rush back."

On the phone, thousands of miles away, Erik's just another man. A stranger that Charles just met, filled with the possibilities of who he might be, what he might mean to Charles some day. On the phone, his voice is kind and he doesn't even sound the same as he did the first night they met. Muffled by the connection, he could be anyone, anyone at all. A man who would read him fairytales when he was in heat, tell him that all endings were happy ones and make him believe that to be true. He wants that to be true.

Who doesn't want a happy ending?

"Erik?"

"Yes."

There's a blurry print out of the ultrasound in front of him, Charles has been clutching it all night, in between the channel surfing. There are too many channels on cooking and the news channels are all depressing and the serials are all stupid - chocolate bundt cake shouldn't be so complicated and why are so many alphas concerned with reproductive rights and do we really need another series about spoilt rich teenagers -

"I'm going to go to sleep now."

"Do you want me to read to you?"

"No, I just want to sleep. Goodnight."


	11. Chapter 11

Dr. Munez calls and tells him the bloodwork's fine, the babies are fine, "I hope you're taking your supplements-" Yes he's taking his supplements, he's even stopped smoking although he can't let go just yet of that single glass of wine he has with his dinner can I have another, please? Not yet, and not after childbirth either, he'll be breastfeeding. It's daunting to think about, so he tries to focus on one step at a time. One hour one day one week at a time. "Now I know you're probably thinking I'm going to tell you to stay and home and rest, but I'm not. Light exercise is fine. Fresh air will do you good. Just don't over exert yourself."

"Aye-aye, Captain."

Charles isn't planning on going out despite the doctor's recommendations, except:

The clothing situation, reaching breaking point. This when he finds he can't fit into even his loosest pants. "Goddamit," he mutters fitfully, as he throws on the only clothing he owns that fits him, a grey pair of sweatpants that he almost threw out once because: what use did he have for sweatpants. It looks ridiculous with his usual shirt-pullover combo so he's forced to wear the matching hoodie as well, and then his barely used pair of sneakers.

Raven snickers, when he picks her up at her new workplace. "Are we taking up yoga or something?"

"Shut it," Charles says. "I need clothes."

He figured at first he'd just get bigger pants. All the alphas with giant beer guts managed somehow. But in the mall, Raven leads him direct to the maternity section, where he's almost immediately descended upon by a gaggle of eager betas, cooing over him. "How many months along are you," one of them asks. "Six? You look like six."

"No, it's more to five," another one chimes in. "He's just big." He sounds faintly disapproving.

"I'm carrying twins," Charles replies defensively.

Raven gasps. " _Charles._ "

"Sorry. I meant to tell you. It slipped my mind entirely."

But Raven's already enveloping him in a blonde, perfume laden hug. "Oh my god, twins. That's fucking awesome. Do you know-"

"One boy, one girl. And now you're the first to know." Her and every assistant in this store, but they don't count.

There's a brief moment of faltering, a question on her face, but she wisely decides to only tell Charles, "I'm delirious right now, I hope you're aware. I have to start shopping for baby clothes and toys. Aunt Raven is going to be the best aunt _ever._ "

Her enthusiasm is infectious, hers and the more practised enthusiasm of the betas, and Charles finds himself piling an increasing number of clothes onto the counter. "You're lucky you're an omega male," one of them confides in him. "Half the females end up with these hideous bow-tie mummu things that I'm pretty sure they only wear because they're so used to seeing others wearing it. I keep trying to push other stuff to them, but it's as if they're brainwashed." She shudders delicately. "Generations of bad taste and atrocious fashion sense. Must we be beholden to our ancestors forever." He likes this one the most, Charles decides. Her nametag says her name is Amy -

"Amy, how many drawstring pants do I really require?"

"How many do you want, Mr. Xavier."

Five is the magic number. Dark grey, black, navy blue, white and beige. Then the fabric. Cotton, wool-blend, silk. He even ends up with a few pullovers, the one item in his closet he certainly does not need. "Brings out the color of your eyes, Charles," Raven says approvingly, as Charles tries on a navy blue sweater vest.

"Expandable," Amy adds, "So you can wear it right up until you give birth. My cousin had twins. She got _huge._ You should take two. It comes in a lighter shade of blue as well." She holds it up to Charles' chest. "Perfect."

"That was excruciating," he tells Raven afterwards, over gelato. There were three different types of chocolate. Charles ordered a scoop of each one. It's the best thing he's tasted in months. "What was that? Why do I need so many clothes? Why did I buy them?" He glances guiltily at the row of bags next to his feet under the table. Shopping had always been so easy before.

Raven grins. "Now you know why I'm always broke. But at least you don't have to worry about that bow thing."

"Ugh." Charles makes a face, then decides to concentrate on his gelato instead.

Raven pushes her half eaten single scoop away and says hesitantly, "You look happier, Charles. Is it be - is it because he's not here?"

"No, it's not that. Or maybe it is. I don't know." He rubs idly at his reddening cheek and turns his face away from her. "I guess I'm just tired of being unhappy all the time."

"But he hurt you-"

"I don't want to talk about that," Charles interrupts sharply. He doesn't want to think about it either. About how it will be when Erik returns. All the literature he'd read about unimprinted pregnant alphas only confirmed what Dr. Munez had said, to a horrifyingly certain degree. Sitting here, now, it's miles away, the future restricted to today and tomorrow and the day after that. Tonight he'll talk to the father of his children. They will exchange plesantries, and nothing else of import.

Soon enough, Erik will return, and.

_And._

Charles nods his head towards Raven's cup. She waves at him to take it, and he pulls it towards himself. Raven always inexplicably chooses sorbet, then complains about the taste turning her mouth numb. _Palate cleanser,_ he repeats to her, often enough, but she ignores him each time, choosing instead to complain some more. It's raspberry, sour and tart on his tongue as he flattens the spoon against it.

"We should run away together," Raven says, apropos of nothing at all. "Irene will take us in, I'm certain. We can busk on the streets for money. I'll sing, and you can dance."

She's not serious, of course. Least of which because Charles has heard her sing, and as for dancing, well.

"It's about five months too late for that, love," he tells her nonetheless, and she offers him a quick, furious headshake, but doesn't say any more.

-

Erik returns while Charles is baking oatmeal cookies - it's the simplest recipe he could find: butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, eggs, vanilla, all purpose flour, oats and raisins - and singing loudly along to the radio. All the air disappears from the kitchen, and Charles abruptly shuts his mouth, mid yowl. Erik fills up all the space in the room, merely by standing in the doorway, his eyes a dark grey-green and framed thickly by his eyelashes, the expression in them unfathomable enough that Charles has to look away. He reaches out and shuts the radio off, just to have something to do, and in the resulting silence all he can hear is the thudding of his heart. Erik's heart.

"You're back," he says eventually. Stupidly.

"Yes. Are you baking?"

"Yes. It's uh - I saw the recipe on the tv. It's really simple. I don't think even I could ruin it." Not that he won't find a way somehow. Charles digs his fingers into the batter, squishes it as it gives under the pressure.

He still can't look up, and he shrinks involuntarily back as he catches movement from the doorway.

If Erik's disappointed by Charles' reaction, he doesn't show it. Instead he only says, "I'm going to go and freshen up."

And he's gone.

Charles releases a slow, uneven breath.

Not quite the way he'd expected it to go.

He just hadn't been _prepared_ , that was it.

The cookie dough ends up only slightly over-worked from Charles pounding into it, and he separates it into dime sized balls with a vicious sort of concentration before dumping the tray into the oven. When he ventures out into the living room Erik's coming downstairs, his hair damp and his jeans riding low on his otherwise bare hips. It's the first time Charles has seen him without his shirt on -

\- he hadn't bothered that night. Had pulled Charles' thin t-shirt over his head as Charles made the vaguest of protesting noises and then made quick work of the zipper on his pants, long fingers sliding inside him, "You're so wet," he said, "Oh."

Charles had thought Erik's scent still lingered even when he was gone, but it's nothing, it's a pale shadow compared to it when he's here, Charles had _forgotten_

How could he have forgotten?

Sharp, strong and so very powerful.

Charles almost staggers back, manages to steel himself to meet Erik's gaze.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Him returning: it's not supposed to be like this.

"I brought you something," Erik says, nodding at a box on the dining table. It's the palest of green, wrapped in a silvery bow. "It's a gift from my client. He was quite offended that he wasn't invited to the wedding, but I explained to him that even my mother didn't attend." There's an odd tilt to his voice, something Charles starts to recognize as an affected calmness, a false sort of, if not cheer, then neutrality at least. "He wanted you to have it."

Charles drifts towards it, almost eagerly. He'd always been the sort of boy who adored presents. The opening of them more than anything else, due to how no-one but Raven ever actually bothering to figure out what he might want. He enjoys the moments though, between receiving the gift and knowing what it is. "It's a," Charles says, when he's untied the bow and lifted the lid off the box.

"A wedding kimono."

It's exquisite: silk in the deepest blue, threaded with pale silver and gold, with white trim. "I've never," Charles begins. "I, tell him thank you. What should I do with it, should I-"

"It's largely ceremonial," Erik replies flatly. "You can just keep it in the closet."

Charles fingers the silk. It's exactly as soft as he expected it to be. "Seems like such a waste," he says.

"I have some work to complete. I'll see you later."

He's gone into his study before Charles even has time to respond, but his scent still lingers in the air, thick and unyielding.

-

The cookies are the slightest bit burnt, but edible enough. Charles manages to finish off half of them straight from the tray, and leaves the remainder cooling under a towel on the kitchen counter. Upstairs, he tries to find a place for the kimono, but no-where seems appropriate for something so beautiful. He might have been a happier groom if he'd been given this to wear instead of that awful suit Mother foisted on him. Which is -

"Aha," Charles exclaims. He'd known he'd kept that thing somewhere. In the back of the walk-in closet, neatly hung up. Charles places the box on top of the sock drawer nestled beneath the row of hangers. For now, until he figures out how to properly care for it.

He lingers upstairs for as long as he can before he can brave the downstairs again. Come on, Charles. Be brave, ya. It's just your alpha. Nothing to fear, nothing at all.

On impulse, he slides the remaining cookies onto a plate and walks over to Erik's study, knocks tentatively on the door. "Erik?"

"The door's open."

Charles opens it, then immediately feels awkward. "I uh, thought maybe you might want some oatmeal cookies. They're not very good."

"Shouldn't I be the judge of that?"

He extends a hand when Charles steps into the room, snags a cookie while Charles glances around. It's the first time he's been in Erik's study, and it: explains the rest of the apartment, at least.

So this is where Erik _lives._

Books lining both sides of the room, a large wooden desk that takes up most of the remaining space and lamps rather than the cold flourescent and down lights that are utilized for the rest of the apartment. Neat, though.

A place for everything and everything in its place.

Erik wouldn't allow food in here, surely.

But still he gamely chews on a cookie, says thoughtfully, "It's not bad. Not great, but not bad. You can do better."

The honesty is startling enough that Charles smiles, and receives an answering smile in return.

Oh, so this is how Erik Lehnsherr looks when he fully smiles.

So many teeth.

"I should leave you to your work." He puts the plate down on the desk, and has to suppress a tiny smirk when Erik frowns at it as if he's just now noticing that there's food in his sanctuary.

Charles Xavier was _here._

"I should - I shouldn't spoil my dinner."

"Right, yes." He'd lost track of the time. It is in fact, time to eat. His stomach rumbles, on clockwork. "I get hungry very fast," he says, when Erik starts. "But I haven't made plans for dinner yet."

"We could go out."

"Shouldn't you be jet-lagged?"

"I'll crash later." Erik runs his fingers through his hair and scratches at the back of his neck. "We'll go out, Charles."

-

Someplace that's not the place they went the first time, some place quiet and middle-eastern. Charles asks Erik to order for him, but asks for tea instead of wine. Erik's gaze flickers at that, but he doesn't comment, instead forgoing his own glass of wine for coffee. "You don't have to," Charles murmurs.

"It's fine." Erik eats sparingly but finishes all the food on his plate, the same as he did the last time.

"You don't eat enough," Charles says, picking at his own food. He always alternates between starving and nauseous nowadays.

"I eat what I need." He's so thin though, underneath all those alpha pheromones that make him appear larger than life. There's a faint shadow on his jawline, more auburn than brown, but that's only because they're dining casual enough that he's not compelled to make himself look impeccable. Charles tries to care more, these days, but only manages to be somewhat put together. And if Erik notices the blue sweater vest that apparently brings out the color of Charles' eyes, he certainly doesn't feel the need to mention it.

A thought: what would Erik look riled up then? What would get him riled up. Get him furious, get him backing Charles into a wall with quietly unfurling fury - not a whole lot, Erik hadn't even shown a hint of anger at Charles the night they met, not even during.

"You never told me, what you did for a living."

"I did."

"Consulting, yes. What kind of consulting?"

Erik picks up his glass of water, takes a sip and puts it back down again. "How's your food?"

"Are you avoiding my question? The food's fine."

"I'm not avoiding the question. I'm trying to find a way to explain it to you."

"Surely I'm not the first person to ask you what you do for a living," Charles says. He finishes the last bite of his food, about ready to give up. Erik doesn't _have_ to tell him what he does. Erik doesn't have to tell him anything. "Let's just eat. We don't have to talk."

"Do you always give up so easily?"

Charles shoves the plate violently away from him. "You keep pushing me."

_Stop pushing me._

"I'm trying not to upset you."

"You're not upsetting me."

"I fix things," Erik says, putting his elbows onto the table, his voice low, confidential. "For companies. They call me - they call my team whenever they have a problem. A security problem, or a financial issue, or any number of things. We help to make their problems go away."

"Is it dangerous?"

What he means is: How dangerous are you?

"I will never let you come in harm's way."

"That is not what I asked." In high school, Charles had a brief flirtation with an animal rights group. They made posters and Charles went to a single rally, and ended after he got arrested and Kurt had to bail him out. Two months of being grounded and that was the end of that particular foray. It wasn't Kurt's influence, although his rage certainly hadn't hurt. Mostly it was: sitting in a jail cell with fourteen other omegas in holding, scared and alone and utterly helpless.

It was the second worst night of his life.

"I can't promise you anything else." He sounds hoarse, but mostly he sounds earnest. As if it sincerely matters that Charles believes him.

"Is that what you were doing in Japan? Fixing a problem?"

"Yes. Finish your food."

"No, I'm done. Let's go home, I'm tired."

-

He doesn't expect Erik to come into his bedroom at night, and Erik doesn't. Charles doesn't sleep though. He keeps waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for a familiar voice to ask him how his day went, to read to him in a language he doesn't understand.

Erik's just down the hall, you dolt. You could always just -

But he doesn't.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you so much for the lovely comments...I am kind of overwhelmed at this point so because I'd honestly figured everyone would have forgotten this story by now. Anyway I'm going to try to update semi-regularly at least before the inevitable block (Which hopefully will not last that long!) so have another chapter!
> 
> ...I'm really terrible at this "update by chapter" thing, sorry, I don't usually post WIPS.

In the morning Erik is gone. Charles cooks and cleans and spends the rest of the day puttering around on the balcony, analyzing soil samples and plant growth and trying to decide if it's too soon to try his hand at hybridizing - might want to have some regular plants to begin with before you experiment, Charles - and by the time dinner rolls around he's pleasantly buzzed with some measure of accomplishment, so much so that when the door opens to signal Erik's return Charles beams and waves at him from the kitchen counter. Startlement chases across Erik's features, but after a while he merely smiles tightly back and asks, "Are you cooking?"

"Don't sound so surprised. You liked my cookies." Charles returns back to his saucepan as Erik makes his way into the kitchen to open the lid of a pot.

"Chicken stew?"

"It's a Martha Stewart recipe. Not as easy as that woman makes it look. Her show is terrifying, every time I watch her show I feel nothing but my own inadequacies bearing down on me, and yet! The way she tells it, all I need to do to have a perfect home is to make curtain dividers out of leftover Christmas decorations." He turns over the sausages in the pan, continuing mournfully, "It is not that easy, trust me. That's some crazy omega."

Erik laughs, and leans against the counter, his hands tucked into his pockets. "Do you need any help?"

"You could grate the cheese."

"You've been busy while I've been gone," Erik says, as he takes the cheesegrater out of the drawer and picks up the cheese.

"I've been bored," Charles admits. "There's not much to do, if you're not pretending to be heavily invested in the charity flavor of the month or hosting parties." Everything he learnt about being an omega he learnt from his mother. Before he'd gotten into this mess he'd made a half-hearted effort to look for employment - but mostly his unfocused plan if Kurt refused to hire him had been to take the scholarship he'd been offered back to Oxford at some point to complete his phd. None of that is remotely possible now, they don't give scholarships to bonded omegas, and as for the job. Maybe, if Erik allowed him to work, and if Kurt was agreeable - the bastard hated Charles, but not so much that he won't exploit him if he feels he's of any kind of use. Charles would have worked for the work, and they both knew that.

The thought of having to deal with Kurt again, though.

The thought of having to deal with large numbers of alphas, all searching for someone to put down in their struggle to rise to the top.

"Do you - I was worried about leaving you to your own devices. Is there anything you wanted?"

Charles' answering smile is only slightly bitter. What he _wants._

"This is where you tell me what you want doesn't matter."

"If you know all the answers why ask the questions," Charles snaps back. The sausages look ready, but when he lifts the saucepan off the stove Erik shakes his head, and Charles sets it back down again.

"Look," Erik says heavily. "We keep moving around in circles. I'd like us to move forward and not keep stepping back again."

"There's no forward or backward point in a circle."

"Charles-"

"No, you don't." Fuck it, the sausages are ready. He turns off the stove, and the flames die out with an ominous pop, leaving the pan to simmer in its own juices. 'I don't know what you keep expecting from me. But it's not something I can give."

"If you can't talk to me then maybe somebody else."

"It's not about talking to someone else I'm not crazy I don't need psychiatric help." This said as his voice rises in anger, and he wants to scream and scream and never stop. Maybe he does need help after all. Somebody call a doctor, please.

They could drag him to that place, where all the bad and mad omegas go to die.

Erik moves away from his position against the counter, but it's only to slide the sausages onto a board and to start cutting them into even pieces with a startling precision. "In the pot, right?"

"Yes. You're supposed to use the remaining juice from the sausages for something. I can't recall now." His voice is hoarse, as if he'd been crying. Or hyperventilating.

"I know you're upset with me."

"Now why on earth would I be upset with you?"

Erik slides the contents of the board into the pot before carefully placing both board and knife into the sink. He has to walk around Charles to do so, and their bodies brush for the briefest of seconds, electricity crackling between them as they do. "Why would you be upset with me," Erik asks, his fingers gripped against the steel of the sink. He'd taken off his jacket earlier, rolled up his sleeves as usual, and Charles can't stop staring at the veins in his forearms. "We should talk about why you would be upset with me."

"You just said I could talk to someone else about it."

"And you said there's nothing wrong. I thought maybe after I came back -"

"Nothing's _changed._ "

Erik only twists the side of his lip upwards. "That's obvious."

And Charles had thought it might, he's not sure why he did. It's his fault, clearly. "I'm sorry," he says, faintly broken, all the anger in him fading abruptly away. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"What's wrong with you," Erik says, his voice hard and angry. "Is that you're still trying your best to blame yourself for this."

"Then who should I blame," Charles replies hotly. "You're my alpha. You _own_ me."

"And whose fault is that?" Erik turns and takes two steps forward, crowding Charles against the fridge. "Tell me."

"Stop, please." Charles cringes, and tries to brace himself, but when he dares to look at Erik's he's just standing there, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

"Do you still believe that I would hit you. You don't know me at all if you could think that."

"Of course I don't know you we met the once before we married, and we've been together for a month since then. All I know about you is that you have a job you won't talk about and you obviously had no intention of settling down before my stepfather forced my pregnancy onto you." Charles presses his closed fist to his mouth to keep from spitting out even more nonsense, wills himself not to cry. It's surprisingly easy, his eyes remain dry even as he can't tear himself away from Erik's face. All he knows about Erik is: his body as he bore down, as his cock seared into him, marking him indelibly. His voice, soft and warm as he read aloud, just to keep Charles from falling apart. His face in a photo that was never meant for anyone's eyes, let alone the permanence of a camera.

"I admit," Erik says, plainly enough. "I wasn't planning on any of this. And I'm not - I'm not the most patient of men. Talk to my employees, they'll tell you what a bastard I am. But as much as I'm your alpha you're my omega, Charles. I want you here. I want our child, and you have nothing to be afraid of, I promise you that, at least. Not anymore. I only make a mistake once."

"Stop it," Charles almost shouts, unable to take it anymore. "Stop it, stop it, stop it." He claps his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut to drown out Erik's voice. _Stop it._ Strong fingers envelop his wrists, pulls them gently down. Charles opens his eyes to stare at his hands, pale and soft, encircled in Erik's. "I can't-"

"I know," Erik says, and he sounds entirely defeated. He releases Charles, and when he steps away he's calm once again, implacable. "The food's ready."

"Yes, I," Charles starts, stops once again, relief flooding him like an opened valve. "I'll set the table."

They don't talk at all over dinner, Erik closed off and distant, Charles just grateful to be left alone. When they're done Erik rises and says, "You should go to bed, I can do the washing up."

Charles shakes his head. "No, I'll do it. I have a system now."

"Ah." He stares at Charles for a considerable amount of time, and when he speaks it's to say, "I'm trying my best to-"

"I wish you wouldn't. Stop _trying_ so hard."

Erik's face hardens. "Fine, if that's what you want. _Fine._ He doesn't head into his study though, instead he stalks off towards the front door, reaching into the hall closet for his coat and pulling it on before Charles finds his voice to ask -

"Where are you going?"

"For a walk. Before I say, or do, something I regret."

"Before you go, you should know," Charles says, "We're having twins. Congratulations."

Erik only blinks, then shakes his head in disbelief before he leaves anyway. Charles flinches when the door shuts, even though Erik's not so impolite as to slam it behind him.

-

They barely speak, for the next week. Charles doesn't see Erik at all during the day, and on the occasions when he shows up in time for dinner Charles sets a plate for him and they eat in terse, uneasy silence, only broken when Charles asks for the pepper or Erik asks for the salt. Erik doesn't even comment on some of Charles' more unsuccessful experiments in the kitchen, but gamely eats whatever Charles puts in front of him. He's getting progressively better, but after a disastrous attempt at meatlof Charles is ready to snap. "How on earth can you eat that? It's awful."

"It's just food," Erik replies blandly. "It's allright."

"It's disgusting."

"I've eaten worse."

"Have you? Was your mother as terrible a cook then?"

Erik puts his fork down. "No, but we sometimes didn't have much to eat, so we made do with whatever we had. So long as it filled the belly. I do enjoy a nice meal, but it's hardly essential to my happiness. Besides, you're- not as bad as you think you are."

Oh.

"You must hate me," Charles says finally. "You must think I'm a spoilt, pampered brat that's never known hardship in his lif-."

"Considering the circumstances under which we married, no I don't think that."

"Why? Kurt only did what was best for me."

"If you'd been my son," Erik says. "I would have killed the man. I would have strangled him with my bare hands and then walked away with the full knowledge that justice had been served."

"I don't think anyone should be killing anyone on my behalf," Charles says, putting down his own fork and giving up the food as beyond redemption.

"Certainly you need someone to have your best interests at heart."

"My interests," Charles says. He's not bitter. It's just bile, down in his throat.

"You have every right to be angry."

"I'm not angry."

"Charles," Erik says quietly. "You're the angriest person I know."

Charles stands up. "I think I'll just go to bed. I would appreciate if you could clear the dishes. There's ice-cream in the fridge if you want dessert."

"Stay, please."

"I-" He wavers, caught between "obey your alpha" and the need to flee from the stifling wretchedness of this conversation. Of all their conversations, one after another after another. "Please, I just want to go to bed." His voice doesn't come out higher than a whisper.

"And if I asked you to stay?"

"If you insist that I stay." He makes to sit down again, but Erik waves him off.

"Go," he says. "Just go."


	13. Chapter 13

Charles expects Erik to be gone in the morning, but when he walks into the kitchen he's sitting there on the phone. Charles catches the tail end of the conversation - "bis dann am Flughafen. Pass auf dich auf." Erik gestures behind him as he hangs up. Charles grabs a plate and slides pancakes and scrambled eggs onto it, settling down across from Erik.

Erik clears his throat. "That was my mother," he says.

"Oh?"

"Yes. She would like to visit."

"Ah." It takes a moment before the words truly sink in. "When will she be ah, flying in?"

"Three days from now." Erik doesn't look to happy about all this. He says, "I tried to tell her it's not a good time, but my mother, you can't tell her what to do. Besides, I haven't seen her in a while, and she didn't make it to the wedding, so I couldn't very well force her not to come."

"No, it's fine," Charles says, trying to process the information. It's not that he's not curious about Erik's family, he is, but to be hit with her presence in the near future. A thought: "Where will she stay?"

"She usually stays with me, but I'm sure I can convince her to let me put her up in a hotel." Erik drains the last of his orange juice and stands up to start clearing his plate.

"Leave it," Charles says, and Erik sets the plate back down. "Erik, your mother is not staying in a hotel, don't be ridiculous. You'll just have to move back into the master bedroom, that's all."

"Charles." Erik shakes his head. "I can't expect you to. It's too complicated, all of this."

Charles has to smile at that. "Believe me, the one thing I'm good at is keeping up appearances. Well, when I make an effort to, which I suppose is necessary now. How long will she be here for?"

"She didn't say. Her exact words were: for as long as I'm needed." He pauses as Charles frowns, the gravity of the situation finally hitting him. Erik's _mother._ What would she think of the man her only son married? The one who could barely take care of himself, let alone cater to the needs of an alpha. Erik's an only child, an alpha male child at that. He would have been doted on since birth. "Don't worry too much. She'll love you."

"Why?"

"Because." He doesn't elaborate, just tells Charles, "Try to finish your breakfast, you should eat more."

"That's not what I'm told," Charles mutters, tightening his robe protectively around his body as Erik shakes his head before he leaves.

Erik's _mother._

-

Charles spends the rest of the morning meticulously moving everything from Erik's bedroom into his. It wasn't as if they were going to be permanently sleeping apart anyway, it might as well be sooner rather than later. Erik has a closet-ful of nearly identical suits, all immaculately cut. Charles makes room in his own closet, divides the space into half. Empties out two drawers for Erik's stuff, moves all of his toiletries as well.

The cleaning crew should be in tomorrow, and after that the room will start to smell like a guest room once again, sterile and unused.

All of this, without breaking a sweat.

Well, mostly.

He's exhausted enough that he dozes through his favorite afternoon soaps, and by the time he wakes up it's almost dusk.

Just in time to make dinner: Charles found a lasagna recipe that he wants to try out, and by the time Erik returns home cheese is bubbling in the oven and filling the kitchen with the most amazing scent. "Every time I see you you're in the kitchen," Erik says, reaching out for a warm basket of bread that Charles just put out.

Charles smacks his hand away. "Don't. You'll ruin your appetite."

Erik laughs, and obligingly takes a seat as Charles starts tossing the salad. "You're in a cheerful mood today."

"It was a good day. Sapphire found out that the triplets she's having belong to the alpha that also impregnated and her father six months ago, and now everyone's very upset because some other omega and him are now imprinted - the omega's evil of course. There's some talk of false imprinting drugs?" Charles frowns. "Apparently those exist."

"Ah."

"It's not my fault. The afternoon soaps are practically designed to be addictive. The people behind them are brilliant."

"I don't quite know what to say to that."

Erik has most likely never watched a soap opera in his life.

"I moved your things into my - the master bedroom."

"You what?"

Charles shrugs. "I think your mother might suspect something's up if your scent is still in the other bedroom when she arrives. Besides," he adds firmly. "It's your bedroom. You should claim it back. You should - you should claim what's yours."

"I don't suppose I'm allowed to argue with the logic of that?" Erik finally just shakes his head.

Charles shrugs.

It's not as if anything will happen.

It's not as if Erik will even attempt a touch, let alone try to fuck him.

Charles doesn't have a clue what he'll do if he does, if he's not in heat. Couples do, this Charles knows.

Something pools in the pit of his belly, a mixture of fear and trepidation and -

Anticipation, that's it.

"You should eat," Charles says, cutting the lasagna into two and putting the larger piece on Erik's plate. "You must be starving."

Erik dutifully picks up his fork, and they spend the rest of the evening doing nothing much but eating and talking about the weather, about Charles' plants on the stupid balcony. Erik disappears, as usual, into his study after dinner, while Charles showers and changes and gets ready for bed.

He's in it by the time he hears Erik's light tread up the stairs. Covers pulled chastely to his chest. Erik says, "I tried to shower in the other room."

"I moved your toiletries."

"Yes, I figured that out." He only sounds amused, and he shakes his head as he steps into the bathroom. Charles' eyes get heavy after five minutes, and he only opens them again when a weight disrupts the mattress.

"Hey." Charles yawns, and blinks at him. Even freshly showered Erik's scent is strong, this near.

Charles pushes the covers down, but all Erik does is slide in carefully on his side, and after a brief, "Goodnight," he turns his body to face the other side, his back straight and unyielding. Charles watches him for a while, the long curve of his back and the sharp dip between his shoulderblades. So very thin.

When Erik's breathing evens out Charles pulls his hand out from under the covers and gently reaches out, touches him as lightly as he can. Electricity, even from just this. Charles inches closer, until he can feel the heat emanating from Erik's body.

After a while, he falls asleep.

-

Charles wakes up to an arm draped heavily over his belly. "Urk," he says, and almost screams before he realizes who the arm belongs to. Only Erik.

Only _Erik._

This time it hits him stronger than it's ever been before. The part of his brain that's still functioning, far in the distance, goes: it's because your potential mate has just returned. The body's seeking out the most likely male for imprinting upon.

Reach out and conquer Troy.

Instead he stumbles out into the hallway and ends up on his knees, clinging desperately to the staircase railing and calling out Erik's name.

He won't come. He'll just leave you here to die, waiting forever for his cock.

But strong hands lift him up, and Erik's scent hits him like a drug. He pushes his nose into hot skin, says dizzily, "No need for ceremony. We can do it right here. I don't mind carpet burn." He tries to grab at Erik's hand, at the rest of him, but Erik merely grabs his wrists and twists him around, frog-marches him into the bedroom. "Bed is good too. Thank you, thank you." They walk right past the bed though, and into the bathroom. Charles barely notices at first, he's too busy rubbing himself against Erik, feeling his cock, hard against the back of his thigh. "Please fuck me, please."

"Relax, Charles. I promise it will be fine."

"Okay. Why are we in the shower? Are we going to-" He screams as the cold water hits his body, sharp and unexpected. "Stop, stop it oh god stop." He tries to wrench himself out of Erik's grasp, but he's too strong and Charles can barely move.

Erik wraps his arms further around him, still holding on to his wrists so their arms are crossed together, says over the thunder of the water and Charles' own anguished sobs, "It helps, I promise."

"No, you're lying. I just want you to fuck me. Please." Erik lets go of one of his arms, and Charles tries to scratch at him, but with the slickness of the water and his own lack of strength he can't manage more than a few ineffectual attempts. Then Erik's free hand reaches for Charles' cock, and he stills. Erik strokes him, tentatively at first, then with more assurance, his fingers tight and warm where every other part of Charles is freezing. Charles lifts himself up onto his tippy-toes and lolls his head back against Erik's shoulder, moaning incohately. It's not enough, he still needs -

"I'm going to let go of your other arm now. Don't struggle."

As if he could. Especially when Erik's fingers slip into the space between their bodies, finds him, slick and open and waiting. "Yeah," Charles says, forcing himself down, trying to impale himself onto Erik's hand. "You can just shove it all in. I can take it."

"No you can't, and I won't." His voice is tight, barely restrained, and Charles can still feel his cock, so very hard, and it would be so easy to just - "Don't," Erik says, and Charles stills in his attempt to grab at Erik's crotch. "I will stop."

"No, you won't."

Erik's right, the water helps.

The heat is bearable now, not overwhelming. Not this unquenchable thirst without reason. Look, he's _thinking_ now.

Like how if he manages to slide onto his knees and presses his face against Erik's crotch, Erik won't be able to stop him.

Like how Erik's fully clothed and wet and Charles is naked and they must look ridiculous, like this.

Like how if he offers himself, Erik will push him down onto the tiles and open him up and knot him, and Charles won't be able to stop him, won't be able to do anything but take it.

He shivers, and Erik says, and his voice is the most beautiful thing Charles has ever heard, the scariest thing Charles has ever heard, "There, there. It's allright. I got you, I promise."

Erik presses his fingers in gently. One at a time, the first, the second and the third. His other hand stops jerking Charles' off, and Charles notices dully that he's come, splattering against the tile wall. _Oh._ "Harder," he says, but tries not to move. He can be patient, he can.

A fourth, but Erik pauses, says, "The babies."

"It's fine, it's fine." Babbling, he knows from anatomy. It's fine. If biology is encouraging him to shove his cock up there, his knot, what's a fist? "Please," Charles whimpers, and when he blindly turns his head Erik kisses him softly. His lips are cold, but his tongue hot as Charles opens his mouth, falls into. He's drowning, this is what it's like then.

Erik breaks the kiss, but only to press his face against Charles' cheek, his breathing harsh and stuttered. Another finger, and Charles feels the scraping of his knuckles, jerks as Erik twists his arm, and now he's pushing Charles away, forcing him forward so he has to press his hands against the tiles for support. His other hand comes to settle on the back of Charles' neck.

"Almost there," Erik says, and Charles can't. He can't - the whole world is white hot, reduced to individual elements, picked apart as if with tweezers. The water, cold and steady on his back. Erik's palm, moving downwards to settle close to his spine. Erik's hand, inside of him. Inside him, oh god oh god oh god - he comes again, hard and brilliant and he feels it this time, clenches himself around Erik's wrist as he almost screams. Oh, not just almost then, as someone in the distance does so. It's enough to drive him to his knees, and Erik follows him down, wraps an arm around him once again and says, "You need to breathe, Charles."

"I can't," Charles says, gasping for air that doesn't come. He opens his mouth, but all that happens is he chokes as water falls into it. The tap is turned off, but it doesn't help. "I'm going to pass out now," he tells Erik, as conversationally as he can, and promptly does exactly that.


End file.
